JlOCfl,  A' 


i 

i 

'J 


ri.ivsitrim- 


>«^lttf.>    v^;, 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2007  witli  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/enocliardenotlierpOOtenniala 


ufWi^, 


VffXf 


%\^t  i^iotmnt  llttcraturc  ^nits 


ENOCH  ARDExN  AND   OTHER 
POEMS 


BY 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 


WITH  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  AND 
EXPLAAA  TORY  MOTES 


\ 


ilOUGHTOX,    MIFFLIN   AXl)   CO-MPANY 

Boston:   i  Park  Street;    New  York:    85  FiXtb  Avenne 
Chicago  :   378-33S  Wabash  Avi-nuo 


CONTENTS 

FASI 

Biographical  Sketch 3 

Enoch  Arden ^        .  11 

The  Day-Dream 42 

Dora 54 

The  Talking  Oak 69 

Sea  Dreams 71 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington    .  83 

Ulysses 93 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade    ....  96 

Lady  Clare 98 

The  Death  of  the  Old  Year 102 

Crosslng  the  Bar 104 


Copyright,  1895, 
By  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CU 


Ail  rights  restrvecL 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

Alfrki)  Tknnysox  was  the  third  of  twelve  chil" 
(Iron  of  the  licv.  George  Clayton  Tennyson,  LL.D., 
rector  of  the  village  of  Soinersl)y,  in  Lincolnshire, 
and  was  born  on  August  G,  180*,).  So  apart  from  the 
world  was  Soniersby  that  even  the  news  of  Waterloo 
did  not  reach  it  for  some  time  after  tlu;  great  victory 
was  won.  The  low^  fen  coinitry  of  England  in  which 
tlie  village  lies  has  indeed  sucli  a  quiet  beauty  of  its 
own  that  it  seems  the  very  home  of  i)eace.  Such  sur- 
roundings were  as  well  ada])ted  as  any  could  have 
been  for  the  development  of  a  nature  like  Tennyson's. 
Thackeray's  daughter,  jNIrs.  Kitchic,  has  given  the 
most  suggestive  glimpses  of  the  2)oet's  childhood.  She 
tells  of  him  as  a  sturdy  boy  of  five,  opening  his  arms 
to  the  wind,  lettiug  himself  be  blown  along  by  it,  and 
as  he  went,  making  his  first  line  of  poetry,  "  I  hear 
a  voice  that 's  speaking  in  the  wind." 

Another  story  of  Mrs.  Ritchie's  mvist  be  told,  as 
showing  liow  a  family  of  young  peo})le  who  nearly  all 
■were  to  do  sometliing  one  day  in  jjoetry  entertained 
themselves  :  "•  These  handsome  children  had,  beyond 
most  children,  that  wondrous  toy  at  theii-  comuiand 
which  some  people  call  imagination.  The  boys  played 
great  games  like  Arthur's  knights  ;  they  were  chaui- 
pions  and  warriors  defending  a  stone  heaj"),  or  again 
they  would  set  \\\)  o]iposing  cam})s  with  a  king  in  the 
midst  of  each.  .  .  .  When  dinner-time  came,  and  they 
all  sat  round  tlie  table,  each  in  turn  put  a  cha})tci  of 


4  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

liis  history  underneath  the  potato  bowl,  —  long,  end- 
less  histories,  chapter  after  chapter,  diffuse,  absorbing, 
unending  as  are  the  stories  of  real  life  of  which  each 
sunrise  opens  on  a  new  part ;  some  of  these  romances 
were  in  letters,  like  '  Clarissa  Harlowe.'  Alfred  used 
to  tell  a  story  which  lasted  for  months,  and  which  was 
called  '  The  Old  Plorse.'  " 

There  are  anecdotes,  too,  of  Tennyson's  early 
attempts  at  writing,  which,  under  the  stimulus  of  a 
sym]iathetic  liousehold,  were  not  few.  While  he  and 
his  brother  Charles  were  still  mere  boys  they  deter- 
mined to  face  the  world  with  a  little  book  of  verses. 
A  firm  of  booksellers  in  Louth  was  persuaded  to  })ay 
ten  pounds  for  the  copyright  of  the  small  volume 
which  in  1827  appeared  under  the  title  '*  Poems  by 
Two  Brothers."  As  in  most  juvenile  verses  it  was 
easy  to  see  how  greatly  the  young  poets'  minds  bore 
the  impress  of  their  studies  and  reading. 

There  was  nevertheless  no  lack  of  individaality  in 
Alfred's  mind,  if  not  yet  in  liis  work.  Tlie  fresh  im- 
])ulse  of  university  life  was  needed  to  luring  foi'tli  tlie 
best  in  the  young  man.  A  little  schooling  and  his 
father's  instruction  had  prepared  him  l)y  1828  to  enter 
Triiiitv  Colle^-e.  Cambridge.  It  was  in  large  mcasui'O 
through  his  friendshijis  that  Alfred  Tennyson's  devel- 
opment at  the  University  came  about.  He  soon  found 
himself  one  of  a  group  of  undergraduates  kuDwn  as 
''The  Apostles,"  a  literary  society  which  bound  to- 
gether tlie  choicest  young  spirits  of  the  University. 
Of  ill  "'The  Apostles.''  Artlnir  Flnllani.  the  son  of  the 
liistoriau  of  tlie  Middle  Ages,  seems  to  have  been  en- 
dowed with  tlie  rarest  gifts  of  inind  and  s]»irit.  Iii 
Tennyson's  enthusiasm  for  hi-;  iViend  he  was  said  to 
come    "as  near   perfection    as    ;:untul   man   can    be." 


BIlxnt.M'HICAL   SKKTCll.  b 

AnotluT  of  their  coterie  said  :  '"  His  was  such  a  lovely 
nature  that  lite  seemed  to  have  nothing;  more  to  teach 
him."'  So  closely  alliiMl  were  the  two  yoiin^j^  men  l)y 
every  sympathy  of  taste  aiul  ffeliiiL;-  that  theii  frieud- 
shi|>  SMdii  s^icw  to  he  a  very  part  of  their  lives. 

L'poii  ills  fathers  death  in  18:J1,  Tennyson  left  tlie 
University  without  takiut;'  liis  degree.  Meanwhile,  in 
IHoO,  liallam  and  he  had  together  made  an  ex])editiou 
to  Spain  —  not  unlike  Byron's  to  Greece — •  with  the 
purpose  of  helping  the  rel^ellion  against  tlie  tyranny 
of  Ferdinand.  They  cari-ied  with  theiu  money  and 
letters  written  in  invisihltj  ink,  and  altogether  bore 
themselves  like  true  cons])irators. 

Through  the  college  teruis  and  the  vacations  spent 
mainly  in  llallani's  coin])any,  Tennyson's  chief  concern 
had  ])een  ])oetry.  I  lis  "  Timltuctoo  "  was  honored  as 
tile  Chancellor's  l^rize  Poem  iri  its  year,  and  even  at- 
tracted the  notice  of  the  ])uhlic  ]n-ess.  It  was  in  1830 
that  he  bronght  forth  the  volume  which  set  \\\)  his  first 
pnhlic  idaim  to  b(>  considered  a  ]ioet.  Its  title  was 
**■  Poems,  chiefly  Lyrical,  "  and  in  its  contents  are  to 
be  found  poems  which  still  a])pear  in  Tennyson's  c()l- 
leeted  works.  The  critics  reviewed  the  volnnie  with 
moderate  ]iraise.  and  one  of  them  had  the  strange  fore- 
sight to  write,  witii  s]XH'ial  reference  to  '•  The  Poet :  " 
'"If  our  estimate  of  Mr.  Tennyson  be  coriect.  he  too  is 
a  i)oet,  and  luany  years  hence  may  he  read  ins  juvenile 
description  of  that  character  with  the  jn'oud  conscious- 
ness that  it  has  become  the  descri])tion  and  history  oi 
liis  own  work."  The  faith  his  fi-iends  had  in  hiii. 
is  shown  liy  Ilallam's  ]n'o])hetic  words  one  d:!y  in  tlir 
garden  of  Somersby  I'crtorv  :  "'  I'ifty  year-;  hence, 
})eople  will  be  making  ]>ilgrimages  t;)  this  pla<'e." 

Towards  the  end  of  l8o2  Tiini\siin  hrought  out  his 


6  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

next  volume,  a  little  larger  than  the  previous  book 
and  containing  some  of  the  poems  which  still  hold  a 
high  place  amongst  his  best  of  their  kind.  "  The  Lady 
of  Shalott,"  the  first  pledge  of  his  devotion  to  the 
Arthurian  legends,  was  one  of  them. 

In  1833  came  the  crushing  new\s  of  the  death  of 
Arthur  Hallam,  now  doubly  dear  as  the  betrothed 
lover  of  Tennyson's  sister.  Travelling  for  his  feeble 
health  in  Austria  wdth  his  father,  he  was  seized  with 
an  intermittent  fever,  and  died  in  Vienna.  The  be- 
reavement at  once  drove  Tennyson  —  from  his  earliest 
days  given  to  solitude  and  introspection  —  more  than 
ever  before  into  himself.  For  nearly  ten  years  after 
Hallam's  death,  the  poet  published  i)ractically  nothing, 
and  held  himself  much  aloof  from  men,  leading  — 
except  for  sojourns  in  the  country  with  family  and 
friends  —  a  rather  lonely,  busy  life  in  London.  In 
this  period  it  is  said  that  most  of  "  In  Memoriam  "' 
was  written,  though  it  was  not  published  till  1850. 
Besides  linking  inseparably  the  names  of  Tennyson 
and  Hallam,  this  wonderful  poem  is  for  all  men  who 
mourn  the  loss  of  a  friend  the  expression  of  the  com- 
plete progress  of  grief,  from  its  fii'st  stunning  blow, 
through  its  gradual  stages,  to  the  final  mastery  of 
resignation. 

In  these  outwardly  silent  years  of  its  procbiction 
it  is  believed  that  Tennyson,  busy  with  nuich  ]»oetie 
'.vork  beside,  was  consciously  perfecting  the  gilts  in 
svhich,  with  the  certainty  of  genius,  he  had  am})le  con- 
fidence. The  time,  however,  was  not  wholly  without 
its  friendsliips  and  jdcasures.  To  an  extract  from  one 
of  Carlyle's  letters  to  Emerson  wc  are  indebted  for  a 
graphic  ])icturt'  of  the  Tennyson  of  tliis  ])erio(l  :  "  One 
of  the  finest  lookini-'  nien  in  the  world.    A  u'reat  shock 


BIOG/IAPHICAL   SKETCH.  7 

of  rouL;;li  (liisty-<l;irk  liair  ;  bi'i^lit,  laughing  luizel  eyes  ; 
massive  a(]niliii('  face,  most  massive,  yet  most  delicate  ; 
of  sallow-brown  complexion,  almost  Indian-looking ; 
clothes  cynically  loose,  free-and-easy  ;  smokes  infinite 
tobacco.  His  voice  is  musical  metallic  —  fit  for  loud 
laughter  and  piercing  wail,  and  all  that  may  lie  be- 
tween ;  speech  and  speculation  free  and  ])lenteous  :  1 
do  not  meet,  in  these  late  decades,  such  company  over 
a  })ipe  I 

In  1842  appeared  in  two  volumes  the  "Poems" 
wliich  determined  Tennyson's  position  as  an  English 
]ioet  of  the  Hrst  rank.  Previously  he  had  been  known 
but  to  the  few.  Now  his  careful  matured  work  of  ten 
years  was  instantly  recognized  as  individual  and  high. 
New  editions  of  the  book  were  speedily  called  for,  and 
in  1845  Tennyson's  name  was  ])ut  upon  the  pension 
list  for  an  annuity  of  X200.  From  tliis  time  forwanl 
the  ])oet's  fame  was  secure.  In  1847  ''The  Princess" 
was  given  to  the  world,  and  met  with  immediate 
])opularity.  But  it  is  the  year  1850  which  stands 
forth  as  the  most  nnportant  in  tlie  poet's  career.  Ilis 
marriage  with  Miss  Emily  Sellwood,  a  niece  of  Sir 
John  Franklin,  the  Arctic  ex])lorer,  then  took  place. 
Twiclvcuham,  already  associated  with  poetry  through 
the  name  of  Pope,  became  their  first  home.  Earlier, 
hi  the  same  year,  Tennyson  published,  at  first  anony- 
mously. ^  In  ]\Iemoriam."  Scarcely  had  it  appeared 
when  ^Vordsworth  died,  and  the  laureateship  became 
vacant.  The  warrant  creating  Tennyson  Poet  Laure- 
ate was  dated  November  19,  1850;  on  March  G,  1851. 
ii<'  was  formally  installed.  It  is  interesting  to  rea.; 
that  at  his  iirst  apjtearanoi'  at  court,  he  wore  the  court 
dress  of  the  ageil  poet.  Sanuu-l  Rogei's,  tint  ^^^»l■(!^- 
worth  also  borrowed  the  same  suit  for  liis  in^tallatioii 


8  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

and  that  each  poet  arrayed  himself  in  it  at  Rogers's 
house  before  the  ceremony. 

It  was  not  long  before  another  of  his  most  charac- 
teristic works  was  completed  and  brought  forth,  for 
the  book  to  which  "  Maud  "  gave  the  title  appeared 
in  1855.  We  have  seen  how,  as  early  as  1832,  the 
Arthurian  legends  were  occupying  the  poet's  mind. 
In  1859,  he  published  the  first  four  of  the  "  Idylls 
of  the  King."  As  we  have  them  now  the}"  were  not 
completed  for  some  years,  several  being  added  in 
1869,  —  including  the  '•  Morte  d'Arthur,"  incorpo- 
rated from  the  volume  of  1842,  —  and  the  last  in  1872. 

The  Idylls  give  evidence  of  one  of  the  most  distin- 
guishing marks  of  Tennyson's  genius,  —  his  devotion 
to  his  native  land.  As  became  the  Poet  Laureate, 
he  spoke  constantly  from  a  strong  national  feeling. 
"  Maud "  was  in  large  measure  his  outcry  against 
the  materialism  which  he  felt  as  a  menace  to  his 
nation.  "  The  Charge  of  the  Lio-ht  Brio-ade  "  shows 
clearly  enough  how  his  countrymen's  noble  deeds 
could  move  him.  "■  The  War  "  with  its  rinfjinir  re- 
frain^ 

"  Fomi !  form  !     Riflemen  form  !  " 

gives  an  instance  of  his  power  to  awaken  others.  The 
volume  of  1864,  taking  its  title  from  "  Enoch  Arden,' 
and  containing  such  poems  as  "  Sea  Dreams,"  dis- 
played  another  side  of  his  English  sympathies. 

His  own  life  the  while  was  the  ideal  life  of  a 
poet,  touching  humanity  througli  its  friendships,  yet 
almost  always  remote  from  the  crowd.  Leaving 
Twickenham,  he  went  to  live  at  Farringford.  near 
Freshwater  in  the  Isle  of  Wight.  The  climate  of 
Pavringford  was  not  found  always  congenial  with 
Mrs.  Tennysous    health.     The   poet's  home,  too,  be> 


Bio(ni.\rnic.\L  sketch.  9 

canio  too  luucli  an  object  of  curiosity  to  strangers.  It 
was  tlionj;lit  best,  therefore,  to  live,  at  least  tor  a  part 
of  the  year,  I'lscwliere,  and  by  1807  the  Ti'nnyson 
family  was  established  at  the  retired  estate  of  Aid- 
worth,  near  Ilasleniere  in  Surrey.  lietwccn  this  |)lace 
and  Farrinj;ford  the  time  thenceforth  was  (li\i(lcd. 
The  oldest  son,  Ilallam,  as  years  went  by,  became  iiis 
father's  constant  com])anion.  The  only  other  child,  a 
son,  Lionel,  died  in  188G,  at  the  a!;e  of  thirty-two, 
having  begun  a  promising  di[)lomatic  career. 

After  the  api)earance  of  the  last  of  the  Arthurian 
poems  in  1872,  Tennyson  entered  upon  a  period  of 
dramatic  })roduction,  but  in  spite  of  the  jioetic  beauty 
of  many  })assages  in  Tennyson's  i)lays,  it  cannot  be 
said  that  tiiey  have  given  him  a  raidc  amongst  Eng- 
lish dramatists  at  all  corresponding  witii  his  place 
amongst  the  ])oets.  First  of  the  dramas,  *'  Queen 
]Mary  "'  was  published  in  1875,  and  a  year  later  Mr. 
Henry  Irving  brought  it  out  in  a  condensed  form  at 
the  Lyceum  Theatre  in  London.  '•  Harold,"  in  1877, 
was  the  next  play,  and  has  never  yet  been  acted. 
Other  plays  followed  at  intervals  u])  to  1884,  when 
"Becket"  was  })ublished.  Since  then  Mr.  Irving  has 
})roduced  it  successfuUv. 

"  P>allads  and  Other  Poems,"  ])ubllshed  in  188G, 
brought  together  many  of  the  stirring  shorter  })ieces 
written  during  the  same  years  with  most  of  tlie  plays. 
In  the  year  of  "  Becket"s  "  jniblication,  Tennyson  was 
gazetted  Baron  of  Aldwortli  and  Farringford.  As  he 
had  gained  }.o])u]arity  in  18i)o  by  dm'liuing  a  l)aro- 
netcy,  so  in  certain  (juarters  he  lost  it  for  a  time  by 
the  acceptance  of  a  ])eerage.  1  he  elevation  caused 
no  abatement  of  iiis  worlc,  foi'  \n  188o  •'  Tirt'sias."'  a 
velunic   (h'dicated  to  lioburt    Browning,  a))i>earcd,  and 


10  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

in  the  next  year,  one  of  the  unsuccessful  plays,  "  The 
Promise  of  May,'"  gave  the  title  to  another  new  book. 
In  1889  was  published  "  Demeter  and  Other  Poems." 

Of  necessity  the  end  was  now  drawing  near.  Yet 
as  late  as  the  spring  of  1892,  his  semi-dramatic  pas- 
toral poem  had  its  first  production  in  New  York,  aud 
was  greatly  liked.  In  the  summer  of  1892  he  was 
busy  with  the  proofs  of  a  new  volmne,  "  Akbar's 
Dream,"  but  he  did  not  live  to  see  its  publication. 
Early  on  Thursday  morning,  October  6,  after  a  short 
illness,  he  died  at  Aldworth.  His  bed  was  by  the 
window,  through  which  a  flood  of  moonlight  fell  upon 
him.    It  was  a  scene  for  the  poet's  own  pen  to  describe. 

It  is  impossible  to  sum  up  in  the  brief  space  that  re- 
mains a  complete  estimate  of  the  essence  of  Tennyson's 
poetic  greatness.  In  any  analysis  of  it,  the  purity, 
elevation,  and  depth  of  thought,  the  pervading  quality 
of  imagination,  and  the  constant  beauty  of  structure 
must  primarily  be  reckoned  with.  In  other  words,  his 
mind  was  am2:)ly  adequate  to  supplying  him  with  the 
most  noble  and  lovely  themes,  and  his  mastery  over 
his  art  enabled  him  to  put  them  into  noble  and  lovely 
forms.  He  gathered  up  in  himself  many  of  the  beau- 
tics  of  poets  who  went  before  him,  and  has  won  the 
tribute  of  so  much  imitation  —  often  by  ])ersons  no 
doubt  unconscious  of  imitating  —  that  nearly  the 
whole  body  of  English  poetry  in  our  second  half  cen 
tury  has  been  different  because  of  him. 

XoTE.  It  should  b(;  said  tliat  most  of  the  biographical  material  fo; 
this  ski'toh  has  hopn  drawn  from  Arthur  Waugli's  Alfred  Lord 
Tennijsnn    A  Study  of  his  Life  ami  Work. 


ENOCH   ARDEN. 

LoxG  lines  of  cliff  l)rL'akin<]^  have  left  a  chasm  ; 
And  in  the  ehasin  are  foam  and  yellow  sands  ; 
]V'Vond,  red  roofs  al)out  a  narrow  NiJuU'f 
In  cluster;   then  a  moulder'd  ehureh  :  and  higher 
5  A  lon^-  street  elinil)s  to  one  tall-tower\l  mill; 
And  liiuli  in  heaven  liehind  it  a  g'ray  down 
A\'ith  Danish  harrows  ;  and  a  hazelwood, 
Bv  autunni  nutters  haunted,  flourishes 
Green  in  a  euplike  hollow  of  the  down. 

lu       Here  on  this  beach  a  hundred  years  ago. 
Three  childi'i'n  of  three  hqusi's,  Annie  Lee, 
The  ])rettiest  little  dains^jl  in  the  ])ort. 
And  Philip  Kay,  the  nnller's  only  son. 
And  Enoch  Ardeu,  a  rough  sailor's  lad 

i-.  Made  orphan  l)y  a  winter  sliii)wreck,  play'd 

Enoch  Arden  appeared  0.%  tlie  principal  poem  of  the  volume 
bearing  its  name  in  18(54.  It  is  the  main  product  of  a  period 
of  reaction  from  the  work  which  dealt,  in  tlie  Idj/lls  of  the 
Kiiif/,  with  the  great  legeuds  of  England.  As  in  other  poems 
of  its  period,  Tennyson  attem])ted  to  draw  near  to  tin'  actual 
life  of  the  Kngli.sli  people.  The  sympathetic  reader  will  feel 
especially  in  the  poem  tlie  iitness  of  the  means  to  tlie  end  i'l 
vit'\v  ;  the  many  metaphors  of  the  sea,  the  stress  that  is  laid 
upon  the  elements  of  superstition  and  tlie  supernatural, — -ele- 
ments well  in  kee])iug  with  the  t-Iiaracttrs  of  the  stni'v.  The 
beauty  of  the  desci'i|iti\('  ])assai^'es  needs  no  jxiinting  out. 

7.  Danish  barrows.  Imrial  mounds  supposed  to  ilatc  from  thf 
l)ani.->h  incursions  into  Ihudaiul. 


12  ENOCH  ARDEN. 

Among  tlie  waste  and  lumber  of  the  sliore^ 
Hard  coils  of  cordage,  swarthy  fishing-nets, 
Anchors  of  rusty  fluke,  and  boats  updrawn ; 
And  built  their  castles  of  dissolving  sand 
20 To  watch  them  overflowd,  or  following  up 
And  flying  the  white  breaker,  daily  left 
The  little  footprint  daily  wash'd  away. 

A  narrow  cave  ran  in  beneath  the  cliff ; 
In  this  the  children  play'd  at  keeping  house. 

26  Enoch  was  host  one  day,  Philip  the  next. 
While  Annie  still  was  mistress  ;  but  at  times 
Enoch  would  hold  possession  for  a  week : 
"  This  is  my  house  and  this  my  little  wife." 
"  Mine  too,"  said  Philip,  "  turn  and  turn  about :  " 

30  When,  if  they  quarrell'd,  Enoch  stronger  made 
Was  master :  then  would  Philip,  his  blue  eyes 
All  flooded  with  the  helpless  wrath  of  tears, 
Shriek  out,  "■  I  hate  you,  Enoch,"  and  at  this 
The  little  wife  would  weep  for  company, 

35  And  pray  them  not  to  quarrel  for  her  sake, 
And  say  she  would  be  little  wife  to  both. 

But  when  the  dawn  of  rosy  childhood  past. 
And  the  new  warmth  of  life's  ascending  sun 
Was  felt  by  either,  either  fixt  his  heart 

10  On  that  one  girl ;  and  P^noch  s])oke  liis  love, 
But  Philip  loved  in  silence  ;  and  the  girl 
SeeniM  kinder  unto  Philip  tlian  to  him  ; 
But  she  loved  Enoch  :  tho"  she  knew  it  not. 
And  would  if  ask'd  denv  it.      Enocli  set 

io  A  purpose  evermore  before  liis  eyes, 

30.    t\   line   wliieli   skillfully   forc'sliadows  tlio   tragedy   of  the 
j)oem- 


ENOCH  AliDKX.  13 

To  lioai'd  nil  saviiiL'S  to  the  uttermost, 
To  jmreluise  his  own  boat,  iiiul  make  a  lioiue 
For  Aiinu;  :   and  so  ])rosperM  that  at  hist 
A  luckier  or  a  hohler  fisiiei'iiiaii, 

60  A  earefuUer  in  j)eril,  did  not  breathe 
For  h'ai;iies  aloni;-  that  breaicer-beaten  coast 
Tlian  Fnoch.      I  likewise  liad  he  served  a  year 
On  l)()ard  a  merchantman,  and  made  himself 
Y\\\\  sailor  ;  and  he  thrice  Iiad  pluck'd  a  life 

55  From  tlu!  dread  sweej)  of  tlie  down-streaming  seas: 
And  all  men  look'd  upon  him  favoral)ly  : 
And  ere  he  touch'd  his  one-aiul-twentieth  May 
lie  j)urchasc(l  his  own  boat,  and  made  a  home 
For  Annie,  neat  and  nestlike,  halfway  uj) 

so  The  narrow  street  that  clamber'd  toward  the  mill. 

Then,  on  a  golden  autumn  eventide, 
The  younger  people  making  holiday, 
With  bag  and  sack  and  basket,  great  and  small, 
Went  nutting  to  the  haz(ds.      Philip  stayM 

e.'i  (His  father  lying  sick  and  needing  him) 
An  hour  beliind  ,  but  as  he  elind)"(l  the  hill. 
Just  where  the  j)rone  viV^e  of  the  wood  began 
To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  saw  the  pair, 
Enoch  and  Annie,  sitting  hand-in-hand, 

~o  His  large  gray  eyes  and  weather-beaten  face 
All-kindled  by  a  still  and  sacred  tire, 
That  burn'd  as  on  an  altar.      Pliilij)  look'd. 
And  in  their  eyes  and  faces  I'cad  his  doom  ; 
Then,  as  their  faces  drew  together,  groiiird, 

■/5  And  slipt  aside,  aiul  like  a  woniuled  life 
Cre])t  down  into  the  liollows  of  the  wood  : 

Ty\.  Full  sailor  may  1m'  taki'ii  as  equivalent  tn  "alile  -eanian." 
()7,  •)S,    W  !u".-t_'  the  womU  >^vi'\\  tliinner  and  lijjhter. 


14  ENOCH  ARDEN. 

There,  while  the  rest  were  loud  in  merrymaking. 
Had  his  dark  hour  unseen,  and  rose  and  past 
Bearing:  a  lifelonsf  liunaer  in  his  heart. 

80      So  these  were  wed,  and  merrily  rang  the  bells, 
And  merrily  ran  the  years,  seven  happy  years, 
Seven  ha})py  years  of  health  and  competence, 
And  mutual  love  and  honorable  toil ; 
With  children  ;  first  a  daughter.      In  him  woke, 

85  With  his  first  babe's  first  cry,  the  noble  wish 
To  save  all  earnings  to  tlie  uttermost, 
And  give  his  child  a  better  bringing-up 
Than  his  had  been,  or  hers  ;  a  wish  renew'd, 
When  two  years  after  came  a  boy  to  be 

90  The  rosy  idol  of  her  solitudes, 
While  Enoch  was  abroad  on  wrathful  seas, 
Or  o^ten  journeying  landvrard ;  for  in  truth 
Enoch's  white  horse,  and  Enoch's  ocean-spoil 
In  ocean-smelling  osier,  and  his  face, 

95  Rough-redden'd  with  a  thousand  winter  gales, 
Not  only  to  the  market-cross  were  known. 
But  in  the  leafy  lanes  behind  the  down. 
Far  as  the  portal-warding  lion-whelp 
And  peacock-yewtree  of  tlie  lonely  Hall, 

100  Whose  Friday  fare  was  Enoch's  ministering. 

Then  came  a  change,  as  all  things  human  change. 
Ten  miles  to  northward  of  the  narrow  port 
94.  Osier  l)asket. 

9G.  ^lany   Englisli  villages    have    an   old  stone   cross   in  the 
market-place. 

98.  The  heraldic  device  over  the  portal  to  the  hall,  supposed 
to  stand  as  a  guard  (warding). 

99.  A  yew-tree  cut,  after  the   fasliion   of   old   gardening,  into 
the  form  of  a  peacock. 


ENOCH  AliDKX.  15 

Open'd  a  lari^or  liaven  :   thitlior  used 
Enoch  at  tinu's  to  go  l)y  land  or  sea  ; 

w>  And  once  when  tlien?,  and  c'landj(;rini;'  on  a  mast 
In  harbor,  l)y  jnlsehancH^  ho  sli|>t  and  fidl : 
A  limb  was  broken  wlien  they  lifted  him  ; 
And  while  he  lay  reeoverini^  there,  his  wife 
Bore  him  another  son,  a  sickly  one  : 

no  Another  hand  crept  too  across  his  trade 

Takini;  her  bread  and  theirs :  and  on  him  fell, 
Altho'  a  grave  and  staid  Clod-fearin'^-  man, 
Yet  lying  thus  inactive,  doubt  and  gloom. 
He  seem'd,  as  in  a  nightmare  of  the  night, 

11  j  To  see  his  children  leading  evermore 
Low  misoral)le  lives  of  liand-to-mouth, 
And  her  he  loved,  a  beggar :  then  he  ])ray'(l 
"  Save  them  from  this,  whatever  comes  to  me." 
And  while  he  prayd,  the  master  of  that  ship 

120  Enoch  had  served  in,  hearing  his  mischance. 
Came,  for  he  knew  the  man  and  valued  him, 
Keporting  of  his  vessel  China-bound, 
And  wanting  yet  a  boatswain.     Would  he  go? 
There  yet  were  many  weeks  before  she  sail'd, 

125  Sail'd   from   this    port.      "Would    Enoch    have  the 
l)lace  ? 
And  Enoch  all  at  once  assented  to  it, 
Kejoicing  at  that  answer  to  his  prayer. 

So  now  that  shadow  of  mischance  appear'd 
No  graver  than  as  when  some  little  cloud 
130  Cuts  off  the  fiery  highway  of  the  sun. 

And  isles  a  light  in  the  ofHiig  :  yet  the  wife  — 
AVhen  he  was  gone  —  the  children  —  what  to  do  ? 

131.   At  sea  on  liulf  cloiidy  days  one  off  en  notices  a  bit  of  suu« 
light  standing  out  on  the  \\ater  like  an  island. 


16  ENOCH  ARDEN. 

Then  Enocli  lay  long-pondering  on  his  plans  ; 
To  sell  the  boat  —  and  yet  he  loved  her  well  — 

135  How  many  a  rough  sea  had  he  weather'd  in  her ! 
He  knew  her,  as  a  horseman  knows  his  horse  — 
And  yet  to  sell  her  —  then  with  what  she  brought 
Buy  goods  and  stores  —  set  Annie  forth  in  trade 
With  all  that  seamen  needed  or  their  wives  — 

140  So  might  she  keep  the  house  while  he  was  gone. 
Should  he  not  trade  himself  out  yonder?  go 
This  voyage  more  than  once  ?  yea,  twice  or  thrice  — 
As  oft  as  needed  —  last,  returning  rich, 
Become  the  master  of  a  larger  craft, 

145  With  fuller  profits  lead  an  easier  life, 
Have  all  his  pretty  young  ones  educated. 
And  pass  his  days  in  peace  among  his  own. 

Thus  Enoch  in  his  heart  determined  all : 
Then  moving  homeward  came  on  Annie  pale, 

ISO  Nursing  the  sickly  babe,  her  latest-born. 
Forward  she  started  with  a  happy  cry, 
And  laid  the  feeble  infant  in  his  arms ; 
Whom  Enoch  took,  and  handled  all  his  limbs. 
Appraised  his  weight  and  fondled  father-like, 

'..'■o  But  had  no  heart  to  break  his  2)urposes 
To  Annie,  till  the  morrow,  when  he  spoke. 

Then  first  since  Enoch's  golden  ring  had  girt 
Her  finger,  Annie  fought  against  his  will : 
Yet  not  witli  brawling  opposition  she, 
ISO  But  manifold  entreaties,  many  a  tear, 
Many  a  sad  kiss  by  day  bv  night  renew'd 
(Sm-e  that  all  evil  would  come  out  of  it) 

112.  Voyage    must  be   read  as  a  dissyllable,   not   too   pro- 
(iouiifjedly. 


KXOCII   AlihEN.  17 

Bt'souglit  him,  supplicatiiij;',  it'  lie  cared 

For  her  or  his  clear  ehiklreii,  not  to  i^o. 

J85  He  not  for  his  own  sell"  caring-  bnt  her. 

Her  and  her  children,  let  her  j)lead  in  vain  ; 
So  grieving  held  his  will,  and  bore  it  thi'o'. 

For  Fnoeh  parted  with  his  old  sea-friend, 
Honght  Annie  goods  and  stores,  and  st-t  his  hand 

Ko  To  tit  their  litth;  streetward  sitting-room 

With  shelf  and  corner  for  the  goods  and  stores. 
So  all  day  long  till  Enoch's  last  at  home. 
Shaking  their  ])rettv  cabin,  hannner  and  axe, 
Anger  and  saw.  while  Annie  si-emd  to  hear 

17.^  Her  own  death-scaifold  raising.  shrilTd  and  range 
Till  this  was  ended,  and  his  earetul  hand, — 
The  space  was  narrow.  —  having  ordei-'d  all 
Almost  as  neat  and  close  as  Nature  packs 
Her  blossom  or  her  seedling,  ])aused  ;  and  he, 

180  ^^'h()  needs  would  work  for  Annie  to  the  last, 
AsciMuling  tired,  heavily  slept  till  morn. 

And  Enoch  faced  this  morning  of  farewell 
Brightly  and  l)oldIy.  All  his  Annie's  fears, 
Save  as  his  Annie's,  were  a  laughter  to  him. 

1^'  \  et  Enoch  as  a  brave  (iod-fearing  man 
liiov.'d  himst'lf  down,  and  in  that  mystery 
^\  here  ( iod-in-miin  is  one  with  man-in-liod. 
Pray  d  tor  a  blo.-inL;-  op.  liis  wile  and  babes, 
^^  hatever  came  to  him  :   and  iheu  he  said 

i!ii' •*  Annie,  this  voyage  l»y  the  grace  of  (lod 
^\  ill  l>ring  fair  weather  yet  to  all  of  us. 
Keep  a  clean  heui-tli  and.  a  (dear  lire  for  me. 

Iti.").    Xcit  nil  (';i--\-  liiH'  to  iTii'l   with    proji"!-  stress  :   >■'■//    slioulti 
be  (Iwcil    njiiill.  :i;,.i   ,-   v"\  i''[  i^'iii-t    iiii'ilr  ;irtiT  rari.in 


18  ENOCH  ARDEN. 

For  I  '11  be  back,  my  girl,  before  you  know  it." 
Then  lightly  rocking-  baby's  cradle,  "  and  he, 

1S5  This  pretty,  puny,  weakly  little  one,  — 
Nay  —  for  I  love  him  all  the  better  for  it  — 
God  bless  him,  he  shall  sit  upon  my  knees 
And  I  will  tell  him  tales  of  foreign  parts, 
And  make  him  merry,  when  I  come  home  again, 

200  Come,  Annie,  come,  cheer  up  before  I  go." 

Him  running  on  thus  hopefully  she  heard, 
And  almost  hoped  herself ;  but  when  he  turn'd 
The  current  of  his  talk  to  graver  things. 
In  sailor  fashion  roughly  sermonizii:^ 
205  On  providence  and  trust  in  Heaven,  she  heard, 
Heard  and  not  heard  him ;  as  the  village  girl, 
Who  sets  her  pitcher  underneath  the  spring, 
Musing  on  him  that  u.sed  to  fill  it  for  her, 
Hears  and  not  hears,  and  lets  it  overflow. 

210      At  length  she  spoke,  "  O  Enoch,  you  are  wise ; 
And  yet  for  all  your  wisdom  well  know  I 
That  I  shall  look  upon  your  face  no  more." 

"Well  then,"  said  Enoch,  "  I  shall  look  on  yours, 
Annie,  the  ship  I  sail  in  passes  here 
215  (Pie  named  the  day),  get  you  a  seaman's  glass. 
Spy  out  my  face,  and  laugh  at  all  your  fears." 

But  when  the  last  of  those  last  moments  came, 
"  Annie,  my  girl,  clieer  up,  be  comforted. 
Look  to  the  babes,  and  till  I  come  again, 
220  Keep  everything  shipshape,  for  I  must  go. 
And  fear  no  more  for  me  ;  or  if  you  fear 

213.  Another  significant  jnopliecy,  as  in  line  36. 


EXOdl  ARDEN.  19 

Cast  all  your  cares  on  (iod  ;  that  anchor  holds. 
Is  1I(?  not  yoiuhn"  in  those  nttcnuost 
Parts  of  the  niornin<^?  if  I  flee  to  these 
ri'.  Can  [  i^o  from  him  ?  and  the  sea  is  His, 
The  sea  is  His:   lie  made  it." 

Enoch  rose, 
Cast  his  strong'  arms  ahout  his  droo[)ing-  wife, 
And  kissM  his  wonder-stricken  little  ones  ; 
Jiut  for  the  third,  the  sickly  one,  who  slept 

230  After  a  nig'ht  of  f(n('rons  wakefulness, 

AVhen  Annie  would  have  raised  him  Enoch  said, 
"  AVake   him   not;   let  him  sleep;    how  should  the 

child 
Remember  this  ?  "  and  kiss'd  him  in  his  cot. 
J)ut  Annie  from  licr  l)al)y's  foi'eheatl  dipt 

23o  A  tiny  curl,  and  _«j,ave  it :   this  he  ke})t 

Thro'  all  his  future  :  hut  now  hastily  caut;ht 
His  bundle,  waved  his  iiand,  and  went  his  wny. 

She  when  the  day,  that  Enoch  mentiou'd,  came, 
T^orrowM  a  glass,  but  all  in  vain  :  ]K'vha[)s 
840  She  couLl  not  fix  the  glass  to  suit  her  eye  ; 
Perhaps  her  eye  was  dim,  hand  tremulous  ; 
She  saw  him  not  :  and  while  he  stood  on  deck 
Waving,  tlie  moment  and  the  V(,'ssel  past. 

Ev'n  to  tlie  last  dip  of  the  vanishing  sail 
i4j  Slie  watchM  it,  and  departed  weej>ing  for  him  ; 
Tlien,  tho*  sh(i  mouruM  his  absence  as  ins  grave. 
Set  her  sad  will  no  less  to  chime  wiili  Ids, 
But  throve  not  in  her  trade,  nut  bM'ing  bred 

^I'l'l-'l'lCu  Tlie   use  dt"    r>ilili'   laiii^uaye   at    this  inoiiicnt  is  (niitc 
in  harinouv  witli  I'lioch"-,  eliar:i<tci-. 


20  ENOCH  ARDEN. 

To  barter,  nor  coinpensatiiif;^  tlie  want 
ioo  By  sbrewdaess,  neither  capable  of  lies, 
Nor  asking  overmuch  and  taking  less, 
And  still  foreboding  "  wiiat  would  Enoch  say?'' 
For  more  than  once,  in  days  of  difficulty 
And  pressure,  had  she  sold  her  wares  for  less 
265  Than  what  she  gave  in  l)uying  what  she  sold  : 
She  fail'd  and  sadden'd  knowing  it ;  and  thus, 
Expectant  of  that  news  which  never  came, 
Gain'd  for  her  own  a  scanty  sustenance, 
And  lived  a  life  of  silent  melancholy. 

260      Now  the  third  child  was  sickly-ljorn  and  grew 
Yet  sicklier,  tho'  the  mother  cared  for  it 
With  all  a  mother's  care  :  nevertheless, 
Whether  her  business  often  call'd  her  from  it, 
Or  thro'  the  want  of  what  it  needed  most, 

2b.5  Or  means  to  pay  the  voice  who  best  could  teU 
What  most  it  needed  —  howsoe'er  it  was. 
After  a  lingering,  —  ere  she  was  aware,  — ■ 
Like  the  caged  bird  esca])ing  suddenly. 
The  little  innocent  soul  flitted  away. 

270      In  that  same  week  when  Annie  buried  it, 
Philip's  true  heart,  which  hunger'd  for  her  peace 
(Since  Enoch  left  he  had  not  lookM  upon  her), 
Smote  him.  as  having  ke]rt  aloof  so  long. 
"  Surely,"  said  Philip,  "  I  may  see  her  now, 

275  ^lay  be  some  little  comfort ;  "  therefore  went, 
Past  thro'  the  solitary  I'oom  in  front. 
Paused  for  a  moment  at  an  inner  door. 
Then  struck  it  tlu'ice.  and.  no  one  opening, 
Enter'd  :   but  Annie.  se;>,tcd  with  her  grief,     . 

2S0  Fresh  fioni  ibe  bni'ial  nf  Iwv  little  one. 


ENOCH  All  DEN.  21 

Cared  not  to  look  on  any  human  face, 
But  turnd  her  own  toward  the  wall  and  wept. 
Thru  Philij)  standing-  \\\)  said  falt('rin<;ly, 
"  Annie,  1  came  to  ask  a  favor  of  you." 

385       lie  s])()ke  :  the  ]iassion  in  her  nioan'd  ^'eply, 
""Favor  from  one  so  sa<l  and  so  forlorn 
As  I  am  I  "'  h:df  ahash'd  him  ;  yet  iinask'd, 
His  hashfnlness  and  tenderness  at  war, 
lie  set  himself  beside  her,  sayin<^  to  her: 

290      "I  eame  to  s])eak  to  you  of  what  he  wishVl, 
Enoch,  your  husl)and  :   I  have  ever  said 
You  cliose  the  best  amoni;'  us  —  a  strong  man  : 
For  where  he  fixt  his  heart  he  set  his  hand 
To  do  the  thing  he  will'd,  and  liove  it  thro'. 

2!:i5  And  wherefore  did  he  go  this  weary  way. 

And  leave  you  lonely?   not  to  see  the  world  — 
For  pleasure?  —  nay,  hut  for  the  wherewithal 
To  give  his  l)ahes  a  l)(4ter  bringing-n]) 
Than  his  had  been,  or  yours  :  that  was  his  wish.. 

300  And  if  lu'  come  again,  vext  will  he  be 

To  find  the  ]^reci()us  morning  hours  were  lost. 
And  it  would  vex  him  even  in  his  grave. 
If  he  could  know  his  babes  were  running  wild 
Like  colts  about  the  waste.      So.  Annii".  now^  — 

W.5  Have  we  not  known  each  other  all  our  lives?™ 
I  do  l)eseech  von  by  the  love  you  bear 
ITim  and  his  cliildrcu  not  to  say  me  nay  — 
Foi-.  if  vou  will,  wlieii  Knoch  conu.'s  ;!gnin, 
Vrhv  tlicn  lie  shall  rcjniy  me  —  if  you  v.ill, 

310  Annie  —  for  1  am  rirli  ;;:id  wi'11-to-do. 

Now  let  me  ])ut  tll<'  boy  and  Llii'l  to  ^eliool: 
This  is  the  favor  that  1  came  to  ask 


22  ENOCH  ARDEN. 

Then  Annie  with  her  brows  against  the  wall 

Answer'd,  "  I  cannot  look  you  in  the  face  ; 
315 1  seem  so  foolish  and  so  broken  down. 

When  you  came  in  my  sorrow  broke  me  down  ; 

And  now  I  tliink  your  kindness  breaks  me  down ; 

But  Enoch  lives  ;  that  is  borne  in  on  me  ; 

He  will  repay  you :  money  can  be  repaid  ; 
320  Not  kindness  such  as  yours."' 

And  Philip  ask'd 
"  Then  you  will  let  me,  Annie  ?  " 

There  she  turn'd, 
She  rose,  and  fixt  her  swimming  eyes  upon  him, 
And  dwelt  a  moment  on  his  kindly  face, 
Then  calling  down  a  blessing  on  his  head 
325  Caught  at  his  hand,  and  wrung  it  passionately, 
And  past  into  the  little  garth  beyond. 
So  lifted  up  in  spirit  he  moved  away. 

Then  Philip  ])ut  the  boy  and  girl  to  school, 
And  bought  them  needful  books,  and  every  way, 

830  Like  one  who  does  his  duty  by  liis  own. 

Made  himself  theirs  :  and  tho'  for  Annie's  sake. 
Fearing  the  lazy  gossip  of  the  port, 
lie  oft  denied  his  heart  his  dearest  wish. 
And  seldom  crost  her  threshold,  yet  he  sent 

S.35  Gifts  by  the  children,  garden-herbs  and  fruit, 
The  late  and  early  roses  from  his  wall. 
Or  conies  from  the  down,  and  now  and  then, 
AVitli  some  })retext  of  fineness  in  the  meal 
To  save  the  olfence  of  charitable,  flour 

840  From  liis  tall  mill  that  whistled  on  the  waste. 
339.  To  make  it  seem  not  like  a  gift  of  charity. 


ENOCH  AH  DEN.  23 

But  Pliilip  (lid  not  futhoin  Annie's  mind: 
Scaire  could  the  woman  when  lie  came  upon  her, 
Out  of  full  heart  and  boundless  gratitude 
Light  on  a  hroiven  word  to  thank  liini  with. 

845  Hut  I'liilij)  was  her  children's  all-in-all; 
From  distant  cornei-s  of  the  street  they  ran 
'J\)  greet  his  hearty  welcome  heartily ; 
Lords  of  his  house  and  of  his  mill  were  they; 
^\'orried  his  passive  ear  with  l)etty  wrongs 

3ooC)i-  j)leasures,  hung  u]>on  him,  play'd  with  him, 
And  caird  him  Father  Philip.     Phili])  gahi'd 
As  Enoch  lost ;  for  Enoch  seenfd  to  them 
I'ncertain  as  a  vision  or  a  dream, 
Faint  as  a  figure  seen  in  early  dawn 

.'..v.  Down  at  the  far  end  of  an  avenue, 

(xoing  we  know  not  where  :  and  so  ten  years. 
Since  Enoch  left  his  hearth  and  native  land, 
Fled  forward,  and  no  news  of  Enoch  came.    '' 

It  chanced  one  evening  Annie's  children  longVl 
3i;o  To  go  with  others  nutting  to  the  wood, 

And  Annie  would  go  with  them  ;  then  they  begg'd 
For  Father  Phili})  (as  they  call'd  him)  too  : 
llini,  like  the  working  hee  \n  blossom-dust, 
PlanchM  with  his  mill,  they  found  :  and  saying  to  him, 
i<y>  "  Come  with  us.  Father  l'hili]i,""  Ik^  denied  ; 
P>nt  when  the  cliildi'cn  ])luckM  at  him  to  go. 
He'  laugh'd.  and  yielded  readily  to  their  wish. 
For  was  not  Annie  with  tiiem  ?  and  they  went. 

But  after  scaling  half  the  weary  down, 
ru  Just  where  the  ])i'one  edge  of  the  wood  beg;in 

[>7o.    Tlic  ro|»ctitii)U  lu>rt'  of  tlie  ]iliras(^  in  line  ()7  is  unr  o!'   M;o 
ilist;inci's   of   tlic    di'vioc  used    in    the  [locni   to  liind    tt . ■.;<'!  lifi    !':■ 


24  ENOCH  A  It  DEN. 

To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  all  her  force 
Fail'd  her  ;  and  sighing,  "  Let  me  rest,"  she  said 
So  Philip  rested  with  her  well-content ; 
While  all  the  younger  ones  withjubi^nt  cries 

875  Broke  from  their  elders,  and  fumulludusly 
Down  thro'  the  whitening  hazels  made  a  plunge 
To  the  bottom,  and  dispersed,  and  bent  or  broke 
The  lithe  reluctant  boughs  to  tear  away 
Their  tawny  clusters,  crying  to  each  other 

580  And  calling,  here  and  there,  about  the  wood. 

But  Philip  sitting  at  her  side  forgot 
Her  presence,  and  remember'd  one  dark  hour 
Here  in  this  wood,  when  like  a  wounded  life 
He  crept  into  the  shadow  :  at  last  he  said, 

385  Lifting  his  honest  forehead,  "  Listen,  Annie, 
How  merry  they  are  down  yonder  in  the  wood. 
Tired,  ^Vnnie  ?  "  for  she  did  not  speak  a  word. 
"  Tired  ?  "  but  her  face  had  fall'n  upon  her  hands ; 
At  which,  as  with  a  kind  of  anger  in  him, 

390  "The  ship  was  lost,"  he  said,  "the  ship  was  lost! 
No  more  of  that !  why  should  you  kill  yourself 
And  make  them  orphans  quite  ?  "     And  Annie  said 
"  I  thoufi'ht  not  of  it :  but  —  I  know  not  why  — 
Their  voices  make  me  feel  so  solitary'.  ' 

395      Tlien  Philip  coming  somewhat  closer  spoke. 
"  Annie,  there  is  a  thing  upon  my  mind, 
And  it  has  been  upon  my  mind  so  long. 
That  tho'  I  know  not  when  it  first  came  there, 
I  know  that  it  will  out  at  last.     Oh.  Annie, 

400  It  is  l)eyo]id  all  hope,  against  all  cliance, 

two  parts  of  tlie  tra'^cdy  aiul   make  it   all  one.     Compare  lines 
80  and  507,  for  a  similar  practice  ;  still  others  will  be  found. 


KXOCU  AliDKN.  25 

That  he  who  left  you  ten  loii^-  years  ago 
Should  still  l)e  liviuL;' ;   well  then  —  let  nie  speak  : 
I  grieve  to  see  you  j)ooi'  and  wanting  helj) : 
I  eannot  help  you  as  I  wish  to  do 

*05  Unless  —  they  say  that  women  are  so  (piielv  — 
Perhaps  you  know  what  I  would  have  you  know  — 
I  wish  you  for  my  wife.      1  fain  would  prove 
A  father  to  your  eiiildren  :   1  do  think 
They  love  me  as  a  father  :    1  am  sure 

410  That  I  love  them  as  if  they  were  mine  own ; 
And  1  l)elieve,  if  you  were  fast  my  wife, 
That  after  all  these  sad  uncertain  years, 
AVe  might  be  still  as  ha[)py  as  (iod  grants 
To  any  of  His  creatures.      Think  upon  it: 

415  For  I  am  well-to-do  —  no  kin,  no  care, 

^o  burthen,  save  my  care  for  you  and  yours: 
And  we  have  known  each  other  all  our  lives, 
And  I  have  loved  vou  longer  than  vou  know." 

*       / 

Then  answer'd  Annie:  tenderly  she  spoke; 

420  "You  have  been  as  (rod's  good  angel  in  our  house. 
God  l)less  you  for  it,  (Iod  reward  you  for  it, 
Philip,  with  something  ha])pier  than  myself. 
(\an  one  love  twice  ?  can  you  be  ever  loved 
As  Enoch  was?  what  is  it  that  you  ask?" 

fio  '•'  I  ;)m  content,'*  he  answer'd,  '■"  to  be  loved 
A  little  after  Enoch."     "  Oli,"  she  cried, 
Scared  as  it  were,  "' dear  Philij).  wait  a  while: 
If  Enoch  (.'oiiies —  but  Enoch  will  not  come  — 
Yet  wait  a  year,  a  year  is  not  so  long  : 

«o  Surely  I  shall  be  wiser  in  a  year: 
Oh.  wait  a  little  !  "'      Philip  sadly  said, 
''Annie,  as  1  Lnvf  waited  all  my  life 
I  well  may  wait  a  littli'.""      "•  Nav."  she  ei'ied, 


26  ENOCH  ARDEN. 

"■  I  am  bound :  you  have  my  promise  —  in  a  year ; 
«5  Will  you  not  bide  your  year  as  I  bide  mine  ?  " 
And  Philip  answer'c]„  "  I  will  bide  my  year." 

Her^  both  were  mute,  till  Philip  glancing  up 
Beheld  the  dead  flame  of  the  fallen  day 
Pass  from  the  Danish  barrow  overhead ; 

440  Then,  fearing  night  and  chill  for  Annie,  rose, 
And  sent  his  voice  beneath  him  thro'  the  wood. 
Up  came  the  children  laden  with  their  spoil ; 
Then  all  descended  to  the  port,  and  there 
At  Annie's  door  he  paused  and  gave  his  hand, 

445  Saying  gently,  "  Annie,  when  I  spoke  to  you^ 
That  was  your  hour  of  weakness.     I  was  wrong. 
I  am  always  bound  to  you,  but  you  are  free." 
Then  Annie  weeping  answered,  "  I  am  bound," 

She  spoke  :  and  in  one  moment  as  it  were, 

4oo  While  yet  she  went  about  her  household  ways, 
Ev'n  as  she  dwelt  upon  his  latest  words. 
That  he  had  loved  her  longer  than  she  knew, 
That  autumn  into  autumn  flash'd  again. 
And  there  he  stood  once  more  before  her  face, 

455  Claiming  her  promise.     "  Is  it  a  year  ?  "  she  ask'd. 
"  Yes,  if  the  nuts,"'  he  said,  "  be  ripe  again  : 
Come  out  and  see."     But  she  —  she  put  him  off  — 
So  much  to  look  to  —  such  a  change  —  a  month  — 
Give  her  a  month  —  she  knew  that  she  was  bound  -  - 

460  A  montli  —  no  more.     Then  Philip  with  his  eyes 
Full  of  that  lifelong  hunger,  and  his  voice 
Shaking  a  little  like  a  drunkard's  hand, 
"  Take  your  own  time,  Annie,  take  your  own  titne.^ 
And  Annie  could  have  wept  for  ])ity  of  him  ; 

16.5  And  yet  she  held  liini  on  dc'layingl}- 


EAOCn   A 11  DEN.  27 

With  many  a  scarcc-lx'licvabh;  <'X('use, 
'^I'rvin,!;'  liis  truth  and  his  loii^'-suffcranee, 
Till  hail  anothei-  year  hatl  slipt  away. 

I-5v  this  tlic  lazy  i;nssij)s  of  the  port, 

«"ii  Abhorrent  of  a  calculation  crost, 

Kei;an  to  chafe  as  at  a  pei-sonal  wroni:^. 
Some  thought  that  J*hilij)  did  hut  triHe  with  her; 
Some  that  she  hut  held  oft'  to  draw  him  on  ; 
And  others  laugh  d  at  her  and  l*hilip  too, 

475  As  sim})le  folk  that  knew  not  their  own  minds; 
And  one,  in  whom  all  evil  fancies  dung- 
Like  se)'i)ent  eggs  together,  laugliingly 
AVould  hint  at  worse  in  either.     Her  own  son 
AVas  silent,  tiio'  he  often  look'd  his  wish  ; 

480  But  evermori'  the  daughter  ])rest  upon  her 
To  wed  the  man  so  dear  to  all  of  them 
And  lift  the  household  out  of  jioverty ; 
And  P]iili})'s  rosy  face  contracting  grew 
Careworn  and  wan  ;  and  all  these  things  fell  on  K 

485  Sharp  as  rei)roach. 

At  last  one  niglit  it  chanced 
That  Annie  couhl  not  sleej).  but  earnestly 
Pray'd  for  a  sign.  *•  my  Knoch,  is  he  gone?" 
Then  com})ass"(l  round  hy  the  blind  wall  of  night 
Ih'oolcM  not  tlie  ex})ectant  terror  of  her  heart, 
■!:"'  Start(Ml  from  bed.  and  struck  herself  a  light, 
Then  desjieralcly  seized  the  holy  liook, 

170    All^■!■y  i\\:\\  their  cxprctatiiiiis  wci-c  not  i'lilf'iIK'd. 

•)',l!.  l-'roiii  i';\v\\  tiiiii-s  (TIC  t'lirui  nf  divination  lias  lircb  ■-, 
-.•rail  a  )n'rsonal  nic.'.ninu'  in  passai^'c-^  srlrcteil  liy  ciianct'  t'l'iii 
liooks,  'J'lif  .Kiii'iil  of  ^"i^•L^■il  was  ot'ti'ii  nsrd,  and  in  I'.ni^l.  ii.' 
the    llihh'    has   hciMi    put    to    the    sanu'    service,  hy    ['crsons    Iil.v 


28  ENOCH  ARDEN. 

Suddenly  set  it  wide  to  find  a  sign, 

Suddenly  put  her  finger  on  the  text, 

"  Under  th«  palm-tree."     That  was  nothing  to  her : 
495  No  meaning  there  :  she  closed  the  Book  and  slept: 

AVhen  lo  I  lier  Enoch  sitting  on  a  height, 

Under  a  ])alm-tree,  over  him  the  Sun  : 

"  Pie    is  gone,''    she  tliought,   ''  he  is  happy,  he   is 
singing 

Hosanna  in  the  highest :  yonder  shines 
500  The  Sun  of  Kighteousness,  and  these  be  palms 

Whereof  the  ha})py  people  strowing  cried 

'  Hosanna  in  the  higliest !  '  "     Here  she  woke, 

Resolved,  sent  for  hiui  and  said  wildly  to  him, 

"There  is  no  reason  wliy  we  should  not  wed." 
soo "  Then  for  God's  sake,"  he    answer'd,   "  both,  our 
sakes. 

So  you  will  wed  me,  let  it  be  at  once." 

So  these  were  wed  and  merrily  rang  the  bells, 
Meri'ily  rang  the  bells  and  they  were  wed. 
But  never  merrily  beat  Annie's  heart. 

610  A  footstep  seem'd  to  fall  beside  her  path, 
She  knew  not  whence  ;  a  whisper  on  her  ear, 
She  knew  not  wliat :  nor  loved  she  to  be  left 
Alone  at  home,  nor  ventured  out  alone. 
"What  ailM  her  then,  that  ere  she  enter'd,  often, 

-.15  Hi'r  hand  dwelt  lingeriugly  on  the  latch, 
Fearing  to  enter :  Philip  thought  ho  knew  : 
Siu'li  doubts  and  fears  v/ore  common  to  lici  s^/te, 

Annie,    sine<^    the    days     of    tlie   Puritans.      In    G(^(>ri^e    Eliot's 

Ad<tm  lici'if',  WwvAa  ^Morris   :uakes  iiiii)oi'tant  use  of  tlu' practioe. 

"  And  wlitMi    I  'vc    opened    the    Bible  for    direction,"  she  savs, 

"I  've   always  lighted   on  some  cdear  word   to  tell   me   where 

my  work  lay." 

494.  Judges  iv.  o. 


ENOCH  A  II  DEN.  29 

Bein<^  witii  cliild  :   but  when  Ikt  child  \v;i.s  born, 
Thcii  her  new  ehild  was  as  herself  reiiew'il, 
320  Tlien  tlie  new  mother  eanie  about  her  heart, 
Then  her  t^ood  IMiilij)  was  her  all-in-all, 
And  that  mysterious  instinct  wholly  died. 

And  where  was  Enoch  ?  prosperously  sail'd 
The  ship  Good  Fortune',  tho'  at  setting'  forth 

5i'>  The  liiscay,  roughly  riil^ing'  eastward,  shook 
And  almost  overwhehnil  her,  yet  nnvext 
She  slij)t  across  the  sunnner  of  the  world, 
Tiien  afti'r  a  lon<^'  tumble  about  the  C'aj)e 
And  freijuent  interchanij^e  of  foul  and  fair, 

5.0  She  ])assing'  thro'  the  summer  world  again. 
The  breath  of  heaven  came  continually 
And  sent  Iter  sweetly  l)y  the  golden  isles. 
Till  silent  in  her  oriental  haven. 

Tliere  Enoch  traded  for  himself,  and  bought 
iai  Quaint  monsters  for  the  market  of  those  times, 
A  gilded  dragon,  also,  for  the  bal)es. 

Less  lucky  her  home-voyage  :   at  first  indeed 
Thro"  many  a  fair  sea-circde.  day  by  day, 
Scarce-roeking  lier  full-busted  iigure-head 
m  Stared  o"er  the  rip})le  feathering  fj'om  her  bows  : 
Then  followM  calms,  and  then  winds  variable. 
Then  bafHing.  a  l(;iig  course  of  tlii'in  :   and  last 
Storm,  such  as  drove  her  under  moonless  heav^'ns 
Till  hard  u]ion  the  crv  of  "  breakers''  came 

ii'll .   This  (if  course  T'cfci's  to  the  I'O^ioii  ;;1ioiit  the  C(|ii:itoi'. 
ThU.   Voyage  licrc  is  iiioi'c  ii(>ai'ly  oiu>  syllablo. 
."iiiS.   'I'liiTi'    is    a   (Hinsiaiit   ini|irt'ssiou   at.    sua    ol    liiiug  al  tho 
cciitiv  oi'  a  va-t  ciirh'. 


'^ 


so  ENOCH  ARDEN. 

545  The  crash  of  ruin,  and  the  loss  of  all 

But  Enoch  and  two  others.     Half  the  night, 
Buoy'd  upon  floating  tackle  and  broken  spars, 
These  drifted,  stranding-  on  an  isle  at  morn 
Rich,  hut  the  loneliest  in  a  lonely  sea. 

550      ]fc  want  was  there  of  human  sustenance, 

Soft  fruitage,  mighty  nuts,  and  nourishing  roots  ; 
Nor  save  for  pity  was  it  haid  to  take 
The  helpless  life  so  wild  that  it  was  tame. 
There  in  a  seaward-gazing  mountain-gorge 

555  They  built,  and  thatch'd  with  leaves  of  palm,  a  hut, 
Half  hut,  half  native  cavern.     So  the  three, 
Set  in  this  Eden  of  all  plenteousness. 
Dwelt  with  eternal  summer,  ill-content. 

For  one,  the  youngest,  hardly  more  than  l)oy, 
560  Hurt  in  that  night  of  sudden  ruin  and  wreck, 
Lay  lingering  out  a  five-years'  death-in-life. 
They  could  not  leave  him.     After  he  was  gone, 
The  tv.o  remaining  found  a  fallen  steijLi 
And  Enoch's  comrade,  careless  of  himself, 
565  Fire-hollowing  this  in  Indian  fashion,  fell 
Sun-stricken,  and  that  other  lived  alone. 
In  those  two  deaths  he  read  God's  warning,  '*  Wait.*' 

The  mountain  wooded  to  the  peak,  the  lawns 
And  winding  glades  high  up  like  ways  to  Heaven, 
570  The  slender  coco's  drooping  crown  of  plumes. 
The  lightning  flash  of  insw^^  and -of  bird. 
The  lustre  of  the  long  convolyuhHcs' 
That  coird  around  the  state!}"  stems,  and  ran 
Ev'n  to  the  limit  of  the  land,  the  glows 
563.   SteiiT,  a  tree-trunk  of  wliieli  they  triod  to  make  a  canoe 


ENOCH  AIWEX.  81 

t7s  And  glories  of  the  broad  ))elt  of  the  world, 
All  tliuse  be  saw;  but  what  he  fain  had  seen 
He  eould  not  see,  the  kindly  human  faee, 
Nor  ever  hear  a  kindly  voiee,  ])ut  heard 
The  myriad  shriek  of  wheeling  oeean-fowl, 

180  The  league-long  roller  thundering  on  tlu;  retif. 
The  moving  whisper  of  huge  trees  that  braueb'd 
And  blossom'd  in  the  zenith,  or  the  sweep 
Of  some  })recipitous  rivulet  to  the  wave, 
As  down  the  shore  he  ranged,  or  all  day  long 

58.>  Sat  often  in  the  seaward-gazing  gorge, 
A  shi])wreek'd  sailor,  waiting  for  a  sail : 
No  sail  from  day  to  da}^  Ijut  every  day 
The  sunrise  broken  into  searlet  shafts 
Among  the  palms  and  ferns  and  preeipiees; 

5«)  The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east: 
The  blaze  upon  his  island  ovei'hcad  ; 
The  blaze  u})on  the  waters  to  the  west ; 
Then    the    great    stars    that   globed   themselves   in 

Heaven, 
The  hollower-bellowdng  oeean,  and  again 

6»o  The  searlet  shafts  of  sunrise  —  but  no  sail. 

There  often  as  he  wateliM  or  seeiu'd  to  wateh, 
So  still,  the  golden  lizai'd  on  him  ])aused, 
A  i)hantom  made  of  many  phantoms  moved 
Bt'fore  him.  haunting  him,  or  he  himself 
stK)  Moved  haunting  ])eo})le,  things  and  ]daee«,  known 
Far  in  a  darker  isle  beyond  the  line  ; 
The  babes,  their  babble,  Annie,  the  small  house, 
The  clindMug  street,  the  mill,  the  leafy  Innes, 

"o.  Broad  belt  of  the  world,  tlio  ocean  ;  tlif  ancicjts,  in- 
drcil,  hail  smli  a  coiK'i'plioii  <it'  it. 

597.   Si)  luiU'li  was  lie  a  }iajt  oi  nature 


82  ENOCH  ARDEN. 

The  peacock-yewtree  and  the  lonely  Hall, 
80S  The  horse  he  drove,  the  boat  he  sold,  the  chill 
November  dawns  and  dewy-glooming-  downs, 
The  gentle  shower,  the  smell  of  dying  leaves, 
And  the  low  moan  of  leaden-eolor'd  seas. 

Once  likewise,  in  the  ringing  of  his  ears, 
810  Tho'  faintly,  merrily  —  far  and  far  away  — 
He  heard  the  pealing  of  his  ])aiish  bells ; 
Then,  tho'  he  knew  not  wherefore,  started  up 
Shuddering,  and  when  the  beauteous  hateful  isle 
Return'd  u])on  him,  had  not  his  ])oor  heart 
ei5  Spoken  with  That,  which  being  everywhere 
Lets  none  who  s})eaks  with  Him  seem  all  alone, 
Surely  the  man  had  died  of  solitude. 

Thus  over  Enoch's  early-silvering  head 
The  sunny  and  rainy  seasons  came  and  went 

620  Year  after  year.     His  hopes  to  see  his  own, 
And  pace  the  sacred  old  familiar  fields, 
Not  yet  had  jierish'd,  when  his  loni'ly  doom 
Came  suddenly  to  an  end.     Another  shi|) 
(She  wanted  water)  blown  hx  balding  winds, 

325  Like  the  Good  Fortune,  from  her  destiiifd  course. 
Stay'd  by  this  isle,  not  knowing  where  she  lay : 
For  since  the  mate  had  seen  at  early  dawn 
Across  a  break  on  the  mist-wreatheu  isle 
The  silent  water  slipping  from  the  hills, 

iiso  They  sent  a  crew  that  landing  burst  away 

In  search  of  stream  or  fount,  and  lill'd  the  shores 
AVith  clamor.     Downward  from  his  mountain  gorge 
Stc])t  tlio  l(^ng-]iair'd.d(.)ng-beard('(l  solit.'iry, 
]^)ro\vu,  loolving  liardly  liiuiiau,  strangely  clad, 
;  Muttciini;  :ni(l  mumblin<:\  idlot-likf  it  secm'd. 


KSocii  A/inhW.  33 

With  inartienlatc  rage,  and  making  signs 
They  knew  not  what :  and  yet  lie  \vd  tJu;  way 
To  whei'e  the  rivulets  of  sweet  water  ran  ; 
And  ever  as  he  iiiingled  with  the  crew, 

ii4o  And  heard  them  talking,  his  long-boiuKien  tongue 
Was  looseiTd,  till  he  made  them  nndei'stand  ; 
Whom,    when    their    easks    were    lill'd    they    took 

ahoard 
And  there  the  tale  he  utterM  brokenly, 
Seai'ce-eredited  at  iirst  hut  more  nnd  more, 

w.^  Amazed  and  melted  all  who  listen'd  to  it ; 

And  clothes  they  gave  him  and  free  passage  home; 
l->ut  oft  he  work'd  auiong  the  rest  and  shook 
His  isolation  from  liim.      2s one  of  these 
Came  from  liis  eountv,  or  eould  answer  him, 

&H1  If  (juestion'd,  aught  of  what  he  eared  to  iaiovv. 
And  dull  the  voyag(^  was  with  long  delays. 
The  vessel  searee  sea-worthy  ;    hut  evermore 
His  fancy  tied  Ixfore  the  lazy  wind 
Returning,  till  honeath  a  clouded  moon 

sv,  He  like  a  lover  down  thro"  all  his  hlood 
Hrew  in  the  dewy  meadowv  morning-breath 
Of  England,  blown  across  her  ghostly  wall: 
And  that  same  morning  officers  and  men 
Ijcvied  a  kindly  tax  n])on  themselves, 

ii*|  Pitying  the  lonely  man,  and  gave  liim  it: 
ilien  mo\ing  np  the  coast  th.ey  landed  Iiim, 
'-^v'n  in  that  harl)or  whence  he  sail'd  l)efore. 

There  Enoch  spoke  no  word  to  any  one. 
Rut    homewavd  —  home  —  what    home?  had    he    l', 

home  ?  — ■ 
O.'vS.   Sweet  water,  imt  snU. 

Ct.'A.    Voyace,  tv  o   -v  ililhlr-^  ;ii^;nii, 

657.  Her  ghostly  wall,  the  .-iKilk  cliiV.-  ol  tlio  x.iitli  ciast. 


34  ENOCH  ARDEN. 

665  His  home,  he  walk'd.     Bright  was  that  afternoon, 
Sunny  i)ut  chill ;  till  drawn  thro'  either  chasm, 
Where  either  haven  open'd  on  the  deej)s, 
Roll'd  a  sea-haze  and  whelm'd  the  world  in  gray; 
Cut  off  the  length  of  highway  on  before, 

^no  And  left  but  narrow  breadth  to  left  and  right 
Of  withered  holt  or  tilth  or  pasturage. 
On  the  nigh-naked  tree  the  robin  piped 
Disconsolate,  and  thro'  the  dripping  haze 
The  dead  weight  of  the  dead  leaf  bore  it  down : 

675  Thicker  the  drizzle  grew,  dee})er  the  gloom  ; 
Last,  as  it  seem'd,  a  gTeat  mist-blotted  light 
Flared  on  him,  and  he  came  upon  the  place. 

Then  down  the  long  street  having  slowly  stolen. 
His  heart  foreshadowing  all  calamity, 

680  His  eyes  upon  the  stones,  he  reach'd  the  home 
Where  Annie  lived  and  loved  him,  and  his  babes 
In  those  far-off  seven  happy  years  were  born  ; 
But  finding  neither  light  nor  murmur  there 
(A  bill  of  sale  gleani'd  thro'  the  drizzle)  crept 

dS.5  Still  downward  thinking,  "  dead,  or  dead  to  me  !  " 

Down  to  the  pool  and  narrow  wharf  he  went, 
Seeking  a  tavern  which  of  old  he  knew, 
A  front  of  tiniber-crost  anticjiiitj. 
So  propt,  worm-eaten,  ruinously  old, 
o3«  He  thought  it  must  have  gone  :  but  he  was  gone 
Who  kept  it :  and  his  widow,  ]\Iiriam  Lane, 
With  daily -dwindling  profits  held  the  house; 

667.  See  lino  102. 

68S.  A  house  nf  jilustpi-  ctossihI  witli  tiinliers,  "  half-tim- 
•■ered  "  as  it  is  calleil  ;  a  style  of  iu'cliitcctiii-e  made  familiar  by 
\-A.^  pietures  of  Sliakes[nai-(.'"s  iiirtlii>!;ici'. 


ENOCH  AliDEX.  35 

A  haunt  of  biawiing  sciinun  once,  but  now 
Stiller,  with  yet  a  ued  for  waaderini;-  men. 
6!B  There  Enoch  rested  silent  many  days. 


But  Mii'iam  Lane  was  good  and  garjad 
Nor  let  iiim  he.  but  often  breaking-  in. 
Told  Iiiui,  with  other  annals  of  the  port, 
Not  knowing  —  Enoeli  was  so  bi'own,  so  bow'd, 

/0(j  So  bi'oken  —  all  the  story  of  his  house. 
I  lis  bal)y"s  death,  her  gi'owing  poverty. 
How  Philip  put  her  little  ones  to  school, 
And  kept  them  in  it,  his  long  wooing  her. 
Her  slow  consent,  and  marriage,  and  the  birth 

Wy  Of  Philip's  child  :   and  o'er  his  countenance 
No  shadow  ])ast,  nor  motion  :   any  one, 
Uegarding,  well  had  deem'd  he  felt  the  tale 
Less  than  the  teller  ;  only  wiu.'n  slie  closed, 
*' Enoch,  poor  man,  was  cast  away  and  lost," 

no  He.  sliaking  his  gray  head  [)athetically, 
Ke})eat(!<l  nmttering,  "  cast  away  and  lost ;  " 
Again  in  deeper  inward  whispers,  ''lost!  " 

But  E'loch  yearned  to  see  her  face  again  ; 
'•  If  I  might  look  on  her  sweet  face  again 

"55  And  Icnow  that  slic  is  happy."      So  the  thought 
Haunted  and  harass'd  him,  au<l  drove  liim  forth^ 
At  evening  when  tlie  dull  November  day 
V\'as  gi'owing  dulhn'  twilight,  to  (he  hill. 
Tiiere  he  sat  down  gazing  on  all  below  ; 

T20  There  did  a  thousand  memories  i-oll  upon  him, 
Unspeakable  for  sadness.      Ia'  au'l  bv 
The  ruJil^'  s([uare  of  eomtoi't.'lile  bi^ht, 
Far-bla/.im;'  from  tiie  rear  ot    Philips  house. 
Allured  him.  as  thi-  iicaeon-biiy.-  ;.Ilui-eS 


36  ENOCH  ARDEN. 

725  The  bird  of  passage,  till  he  madly  strikes 
Against  it,  and  beats  out  his  weary  life. 

For  Philip's  dwelling  fronted  on  the  street, 
The  latest  house  to  landward  ;  but  behind, 
With  one  small  gate  that  open'd  on  the  waste, 

730  Flourish'd  a  little  garden  square  and  wall'd : 
And  in  it  throve  an  ancient  evergreen, 
A  yewtree,  and  all  round  it  ran  a  walk 
Of  shingle,  and  a  walk  divided  it: 
But  Enoch  shunn'd  the  middle  walk  and  stole 

7»  Up  by  the  wall,  behind  the  yew ;  and  thence 
That  which  he  better  might  have  shunn'd,  if  griefs 
Like  his  have  worse  or  better,  Enoch  saw. 

For  cups  and  silver  on  the  burnish'd  board 
Sparkled  and  shone  ;  so  genial  was  the  hearth : 

740  And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 
Philip,  the  slighted  suitor  of  old  times. 
Stout,  rosy,  wdth  his  babe  across  his  knees ; 
And  o'er  her  second  father  stoopt  a  girl, 
A  later  but  a  loftier  Annie  Lee, 

745  Fair-hair'd  and  tall,  and  from  her  lifted  hand 
Dangled  a  length  of  I'ibbon  and  a  ring 
To  tempt  the  babe,  w^ho  rear'd  his  creasy  arms, 
Caught  at.  and  ever  miss'd  it,  and  they  laugh'd : 
And  on  the  left  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 

V50  The  motlier  glancing  often  toward  her  babe, 
B\it  turning  now  and  then  to  speak  with  him. 
Her  son,  who  stood  beside  her  tall  and  strong. 
And  saying  that  which  pleased  him,  for  he  smiled 

728.  Latest,  last. 

733.  Shingle,  gravel  from  the  seashore. 


ENOCH   ARliKX.  37 

Now  when  till'  (lend  iiiau  (^oiiie  to  lift-  Ixjlu'ld 
rw  His  wife  his  wife  no  more,  and  saw  the  l»abe 
Hers,  yet  not  his,  nj)on  the  father's  knee, 
And  all  the  warmth,  the  peaee,  the  haj)j)incss, 
And  his  own  ehildren  tall  and  beautiful. 
And  him,  that  other,  rei<;ning-  in  his  ])laee, 
'GO  Lord  of  his  rights  and  of  his  ehildren's  love, — 
Then  he,  tho'  Miriam  Lane  had  told  him  all. 
Because  thing's  seen  are  mightier  than  things  heard, 
StaggcrM  and  shook,  holding  the  branch,  and  fear'd 
To  send  abroad  a  shrill  and  teri'ible  cry, 
'&'•  \\'hieh  in  one  moment,  like  the  blast  of  doom, 
^Vould  shatter  all  the  hapji^ness  of  the  hearth. 

He  theref(nv  turning  softly  Mke  a  thief, 
Lest  the  harsh  shingle  shoidd  grate  underfoot. 
And  feeling  all  along  the  garden  wall, 
T70  Lest  he  should  swoon  and  tund)le  and  be  found, 
C'rei)t  to  the  g'ate,  and  openM  it,  and  closed. 
As  lightly  as  a  sick  mans  chamber-door, 
Behind  him,  and  came  out  upon  the  waste. 

And  there  he  would  hnve  knelt,  but  that  his  knees 
'•"'  Were  feeble,  so  tliat  falling  prone  he  dug 
His  fingers  into  the  wet  earth,  and  ])ray'd. 

'•  Too  hard  to  l)ear  !  why  did  they  take  me  thenc; 
C)  (iod  Almighty,  blessed  Saviour.  Hiou 
That  didst  nphold  me  on  niy  lonely  isle, 
Tsnl^phold  me.  Father,  in  my  loneliness 
A  little  longrrl   aid  me.  give  nie  str(  iigth 
Not  to  tell  her.  nevci'  to  let  he;-  Icnow. 
He]))  me  not  to  brcjk  in  r.poi;  1't  jm-;ic". 
^ly  cliildi-cn  too!    iiuis;    1    not    >]>;ik   t,i  liio-;.'.' 


38  ENOCH  ARDEN. 

T85  They  know  me  not.     I  should  betray  myself. 
Never  :  no  father's  kiss  for  me  —  the  girl 
So  like  her  mother,  and  the  boy,  my  son." 

There  speech  and  thought  and  nature  fail'd  a  little 
And  he  lay  tranced  ;  but  when  he  rose  and  paced 
790  Back  toward  his  solitary  home  again, 

All  down  the  long  and  narrow  street  he  went 
Beating  it  in  upon  his  weary  brain, 
As  tho'  it  were  the  burthen  of  a  song, 
"  Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know." 

»3      He  was  not  all  mdi^ppy.     His  resolve 
Upbore  him,  and  firm  faith,  and  evermore 
Prayer  from  a  living  source  within  the  will, 
And  Ideating  up  thro"  all  the  bitter  world. 
Like  fountains  of  sweet  water  in  the  sea, 

Eon  Kept  him  a  living  soul.      '"  Thi>,  miller's  wife," 
He  said  to  Miriam,  '*  that  you  s])oke  about, 
Has  she  no  fear  that  her  first  husl^and  lives?  " 
"Ay,  ay,  poor  soul,"  said  Miriam,  ''  fear  enow  ! 
If  you  could  tell  her  you  had  seen  liim  dead. 

805  Why,  that  would  be  her  comfort  ;  "  and  he  thought 
"■  After  the  Lord  lias  calFd  me  she  shall  know, 
I  wait  His  time  ;"  and  Enoch  set  liimself. 
Scorning  an  alms,  to  work  whereby  to  live. 
Almost  to  all  things  could  he  turn  liis  liaiid. 

8ifi  Cooper  he  was  and  carpentei-,  and  wrought 
To  make  the  boatmen  fishing-nets,  or  help"d 
Xi  lading  and  unlading  the  tall  l)arks. 
That  brought  the  stinted,  connnerce  of  those  days  ; 
Thus  earn'd  a  sca^t's'  living  f(n'  himself  : 

615  Yet  since  he  did  but  labor  for  iiiniseif, 
7'JO.   >i  <■  iiiR-  ii;i8. 


EMJCll   AUDKN. 

Work  without  li()[)(',  tliere  w;is  not  life  iii  it 
A\'lK'vel)y  tlu;  man  could  live;  tuul  as  the  year 
Koll'd  itself  round  a_!j;aiu  to  meet  the  day 
\\  lieu  Kuueh  had  n  turuM,  a  languor  came 

-20  U])on  him.  gentle  siekuess,  ^'raihially 

^^'eal:euin^  the  man,  till  he  eoidd  do  no  more, 
i)ut  keDtthe  h(Uise,  his  chair,  and  last  his  bed. 
And   ['.uoch  lioi'c  liis  weakness  clieerfully. 
For  sure  no  ^^ludlier  does  the  sti'itnded  wreck 

81.'.:.  See  tliro'  the  !4i'ay  skii-ts  of  a  lifting-  scjuall 
The  boat  that  bears  the  hoj)e  of  life  a])proaeh 
To  savi'  the  life  despaiiM  of,  than  he  saw 
Death  dawninii-  on  l)im,  and  the  close  of  all. 


ay 


For  thro'  that  dawnino-  gleamM  a  kindlier  hope 

8.!0  On  Enoch  tfiinkino-,  "afti-r  I  am  lione. 

Then  may  she  leai'u  I  lov"d  her  to  the  last." 
He  calld  aloud  for  Miriam  Lane  and  said 
'•  Woman,  I  have  a  seci'et  —  only  swear, 
Befoi'e  I  tell  you  —  swear  upon  the  book 

S3.5  Not  to  reveal  it,  till  you  see  me  dead." 

'•Dt\ul,"'  clamorM  the  ^ood  woman,  "hear  him  talk; 
I  warrant,  man,  that  we  shall  brinii'  you  round." 
"Swear,"  added  Enocli  stei'idy,  "on  the  bo(dv." 
And  on  the  boolc,  half-fi'ii^lited.  Miiknn  swore. 

*<)"  Then  Knocli  rolliuLj,'  his  i^rav  cv(>s  upon  her, 
"  Did  you  Isuow  Knoch  Arden  of  tliis  town  ',' " 
■"  Knov,-  him?""  she  said,  "  1  knew  him  far  away. 
Av.  av.  I  iniud  liim  eomiu'^'  down  tli"  street' 
Held  in-  \\k_m[  Jiiii'li.  and  cured  for  no  i.'.'Ui,  lie." 

?i.  Siowiy  aiu'i  siidiy  Enoch  answer"'!  Iiei': 

'•  Il!>  iicad  is  low,  .ind  no  m;:n  cai'cs  for  liin.. 
I  think  I  liave  not  th.rcr  d;i-,-^  tmu'c  to  ]i-,c; 
'-  am  the  man.""      At  wlmh  the  wmnan  Li'ave 


40  ENOCH  ARDEN. 

A  half -incredulous,  half-hysterical  cry. 

850  "  You  Arden,  you  I  nay, —  sure  he  was  a  foot 
Hiu'lier  than  von  he."     Enoch  said  ajiain 
"  My  God  has  bow'd  nie  down  to  what  I  am  ; 
IMy  grief  and  solitude  have  broken  me  ; 
Nevertheless,  know  yt)\x  that  I  am  he 

35.5  Who    married  —  but    that    name   has    twice  been 
changed  — 
I  married  her  who  married  Philip  Ray. 
Sit,  listen."     Then  he  told  her  of  his  voyage, 
His  wreck,  his  lonely  life,  his  coming  back, 
His  gazing  in  on  Annie,  his  resolve, 

360  And  how  he  kept  it.     As  the  woman  heard, 
Fast  flow'd  the  current  of  her  easy  tears, 
While  in  her  heart  she  yearnM  incessantly 
To  rush  abroad  all  round  the  little  haven, 
Proclaiming  Enocli  Arden  and  his  woes  ; 

865  But  awed  and  promise-bounden  she  forbore, 
Saying  only,  ''  See  your  bairns  before  you  go ! 
Eh,  let  me  fetch  'em,  Arden,"  and  arose 
Eajier  to  brin£>-  them  down,  for  Enoch  hunof 
A  moment  on  her  words,  but  then  re})lied. 

87J      "  "Woman,  disturb  me  not  now  at  the  last, 
But  let  me  hold  my  ])urpose  till  I  die. 
Sit  down  again  ;  mark  me  and  understand, 
Wliile  I  have  power  to  speak.     I  charge  you  now 
Wnen  you  shall  see  her,  tell  her  that  1  died 

375  Blessing  her.  praying  for  her.  loving  her  : 
Save  for  tlic  ])ar  l)ctween  us.  loving  her 
As  when  she  lay  lier  liead  beside  m_v  own. 
And  tell  my  (bmghter  Annie,  w]iom  I  saw 

Bl)-".  Bounden,  an    old   foi'jn   (if  Jxinud,  Iiere  used,  doubtless, 
ill  liirirc  measure  tor  t.luj  metre's  sake. 


EXOCII  Ai:])EX.  41 

S(i  lilve  licr  motlier,  that  my  latest  breath 
Bso  Was  s|)(;iit  in  hlcssiii^-  her  x\\n\  prayini;'  for  lier. 

And  tell  my  son  tliat  I  died  blessiiiL;-  him. 

And  say  to  Philip  that  I  hh'st  him  too; 

lie  iicvur  meant  us  any  thim;-  hut  i;'ood. 

l)ut  if  my  children  care  to  kcc  me  (h'ad, 
38.5  \\dio  hai'dl\   knew  me  liviiiL;-.  h't  them  come, 

I  am  their  father  :   l»ut  slie  must  not  come, 

For  my  dead  face  wouhl  vex  her  after-life. 

And  now  tiiere  is  hut  oiu'  of  all  my  blood, 

Who  will  eml(raee  me  in  the  world-to-bje.: 
890  This  hair  is  his  :   slic  cut  it  off  ancT  gave  it. 

And  I  have  boiaie  it  witli  me  all  these  years, 

And  thoui;'ht  to  bear  it  with  me  to  my  grave  ; 

l>ut  now  my  mind  is  changed,  for  I  sliall  see  him, 

iNIy  l)abe  in  bliss  :   wherefore  when  I  am  gone, 
£95  Take,  give  hei'  this,  for  it  niay  comfort  her  : 

It  will  moreover  be  a  token  to  her, 

That  I  am  he." 

He  ceased  ;  and  Miriam  Lane 
Maue  such  a  voluble  answer  promising  all, 
That  once  again  lu'  I'oll'd  his  eyes  upon  her 
5(1(1  Kejieating  all  he  wishd,  and  once  again 
She  ])romised. 

Then  the  third  night  after  this, 
While  Enoch  slumber'd  motionless  and  ])ale, 
And  Miriam  watcliM  and  dozed  at  intervals, 
'^I'here  came  so  h)ud  a  calling  of  the  sea, 
M')  1  h;it  all  the  houses  in  the  Iniven  rang. 

lie  wok'e.  l;e  ro.-e.  he  s'lread  hi-  .irnis  ab!'.);id, 

Crying  v.ith  a  hmd  \oiee  ••  A  sail!   ;;  sejl  .' 

I  am  >aved  ;  ""    and  so  fcJi  iiae!'C  and  ^nekir  no  m<U'e. 


42  THE  DAY-DREAM. 

So  past  the  strong  heroic  soul  away. 
910  And  when  they  buried  him  the  little  port 
Had  seldom  seen  a  costlier  funeral. 


THE   DAY-DREAM. 

PROLOGUE. 

O  Lady  Flora,  let  me  speak : 

A  pleasant  hour  has  past  a^yay 
While,  dreaming  on  your  damask  cheek. 
The  dewy  sist^'r-eyelids  lay. 
5  As  by  the  lattice  you  reclined, 

I  went  thro'  many  wayward  moods 
To  see  you  dreaming-  —  and,  beliind, 

A  summer  cris})  with  shining  woods. 
And  I  too  dream'd,  until  at  last 
10      Aci'oss  my  fancy,  bi'ooding  warm, 
The  reflex  of  a  legend  past, 
And  loosely  settled  into  form, 
911.  The  good  taste  of  calling  attention  to  the  costliness  of 
Enoch's   funeral   has  been  questioned  ;  but   is  not  the  fact  that 
expense  would   signify  more  than  any   other   one  thing  to  the 
villagers  a  sufficient  explanation,  or  must  we  look  for  some  sub- 
tler additional  reference  to  what  the  event  cost  in  Annie's  life  ? 

The  Day-Dream.  The  germ  of  Tlie  Da>j  Dr'ium  is  to  be  found 
in  TJie  Sleeping  Beau/i/,  wliich  first  appeared  in  the  volume  of 
IRIJO.  In  its  ex}>nnded,  complete  form  the  poem  became  a  part 
nf  tiie  volume  of  1842.  It  is  one  of  the  h'est  instances  in  Ei;,q-_ 
ii-h  literature  of  the  giving  of  new  life,  througli  a  new  form  m 
'KautVj  to  an  old  tale.  Tlie  device  of  making  a  personal  set- 
ting for  his  ^torv  —  iiere  by  addressing  it  and  its  iipjilication  tc 
"  Ladv  Mora  "  —  was  a  fa\<)iite  one  wit'.i  Tennyson,  In  the  first 
form  of  thi-  Jifor!'.  fi' Arthur  called  I'he  Epic,  and  in  The  Princess^ 
this  metl]od  may  be  observid. 

3.  Damask  cheek.  A  term  from  Shakespeare's  Tmelff^'' 
Night. 


TI]K   }>A  y-IiL'I-AM.  43 

And  would  you  have  tlio  tliouiiht  I  liad, 
And  see  tilt'  vision  that  I  saw, 
wTlu'ii  take  tin;  l)roiiUTy-tVaiiie,  find  add 
A  crimson  to  the  quaint  macaw, 
And  I  will  tell  it.     Turn  your  face, 

Kov  look  with  that  too-earnest  eye  — 
The  rhymes  are  dazzled  from  their  place, 
20      A..nd  order'd  words  asunder  fly. 


THE    SLEEriNG    PALACE. 
I. 

The  varvinu;  year  with  lilade  and  sheaf 

Clothes  and  reclothes  the  ha]>|)y  plains, 
Here  rests  the  sap  within  the  leaf, 

Here  stays  the  l)looil  amou<;-  tlu>  veins. 
2o  Faint  shadows,  va])ors  liuhtly  curl'd. 

Faint  nnirnnns  from  the  meadows  come, 
Like  hints  and  echoes  of  the  world 

To  spirits  folded  in  the  womb. 

II. 

Soft  lustre  Ixithes  the  range  of  urns 
30      On  every  slanting  terracedawn. 
The  fountain  to  his  place  returns 

Dce[)  in  the  garden  lake  withdrawn. 
Here  <lroo])s  the  hanner  on  the  tower,^ 
Oji  the  hall-heartlis  tlie  festal  fires, 
35  The  ])eacock  in  liis  laui'el  Ijowci', 
The  parrot  in  his  gilded  wires. 


44  THE  DAY-DREAM. 

III. 

Roof-haunting  martins  warm  their  eggs  : 
In  these,  in  those  the  life  is  stay'd. 

The  manth's  from  the  goklen  pegs 
40      Droop  sk'epily  :  no  sound  is  made, 

Not  even  of  a  g-nat  that  sino's. 
More  like  a  picture  seemeth  all 

Than  those  old  portraits  of  old  kings, 
That  wateli  the  sleepers  from  the  wall. 

IV. 

45  Here  sits  the  butler  with  a  flask 

Between  his  knees,  half-drain'd  ;  and  there 
The  wrinkled  steward  at  his  task. 

The  maid-of-honor  blooming  fair  ; 
The  page  has  caught  her  hand  in  his ; 
50      Her  lips  are  sever"d  as  to  speak : 
His  own  are  pouted  to  a  kiss  : 

The  blush  is  lix"d  upon  her  cheek. 

V. 

Till  all  the  hundred  suunners  pass. 
The  beams,  that  thro'  the  oriel  shine, 
55  ]\Iake  prisms  in  every  carven  glass, 

xVnd  beaker  brimm"d  with  noble  wine. 
Each  baron  at  the  banrpiet  sleeps. 
Grave  faces  gather'd  in  a  ring. 
His  state  tlie  king  reposing  kee])s. 
66      He  must  have  been  a  jovial  king. 

37.  Martins.  Shakespeare's  "  temple-haunting  martlet  "  in 
M<i''h(th  is  tljc  same  Lird,  —  a  swallow. 

~>'^.  The  hundred  summers,  the  years  thrniioli  whidi,  in  the 
old  stoi'v  ot  'J'iiij  Sir,/,i'i,/  liniut:!,  the  .shirnon-  of  the  easlle  and 
all  within  it  was  to  la>t. 


I'HK   DA  y-hUEAM.  45 

vr. 
All  round  a  lu'(lt;e  iqishoots,  and  shows 

At  distanct'  lilce  a  little  wood  ; 
Thorns,  ivies,  woodbine,  mistletoes. 

And  i;ra))es  with  bunches  red  as  l)lood  ; 
65  All  ('ree})in^•  plants,  a  wall  of  ^reeu 

Close-matted,  bur  and  brake  and  brier, 
And  ij;lim[)sing  over  these,  just  seen. 
High  up,  the  topmost  palaee-s})ire. 

VII. 

When  will  the  hundred  summers  die, 

70      And  thought  and  time  be  horn  ai';ain, 

And  newer  knowledu'e,  drawing'  ni<ili, 

l>rin<i'  truth  that  sways  the  soul  of  men? 
Here  all  things  in  their  ])lace  remain. 
As  all  were  order'd,  ages  since. 
75  Come.  Cari'  and  Pleasur(>,  Hope  and  Pain, 
And  bring  the  fated  fairy  l*rince. 


THE    SLEEPING    BEAUTY. 
T. 

Year  after  year  unto  her  feet, 

She  lying  on  her  coucli  alone, 
Aci'oss  the  pui'ple  coverlet. 

The  maiden's  jet-l»lac]c  liaii-  has  growai, 
On  either  side  her  tranced  form 

Foi'tli  streaiiiiiig  from  a  hraid  of  peai'l : 
The  slumbrous  liglit  is  rich  and  warm. 

And  moves  not  on  the  rounded  curl. 


46  THE  DAY-DREAM. 


II. 

85  The  silk  star-bioicler"cl  coverlid 

Unto  her  limbs  itself  doth  mould 
Languidly  ever  ;  and,  amid 

Her  full  bhick  ringlets  downward  roU'd, 
Glows  forth  each  softly-shadow'd  arm 
30      With  bracelets  of  the  diamond  bright : 
Her  constant  beauty  doth  inform 

Stillness  with  love,  and  day  with  light. 

III. 

She  sleeps  :  her  l)reathiugs  are  not  heard 
In  palace  chambers  far  apart. 
95  The  fragrant  tresses  are  not  stirr'd 
That  lie  upon  her  charmed  heart. 
She  sleeps  :  on  either  hand  upswells 

The  gold-fringed  pillf)w  lightly  i)rest : 
She  slee])s,  nor  dreams,  hut  ever  dwells 
100      A  perfect  form  in  perfect  rest. 


THE    ARRIVAL. 


All  precious  things,  discovcrM  late, 

To  those  that  seek  them  issue  forth  ; 
For  love  in  sequel  woi'ks  with  fate. 

And  draws  the  veil  from  hidden  worth. 
-05  He  travels  far  from  oth<'r  slvies  — 

His  manrln  glitters  on  tlic  rocks  — 
A  fairy  Prince,  with  joyful  eyes, 

And  liuhter-footcd  than  tlie  fox. 


THE  DAY-DREAM.  47 

ir. 

The  bodies  and  the  hones  of  those 

:i9      Tliat  strove  in  other  days  to  pass, 

Are  withered  in  the  thorny  ch)se, 

Or  seatterM  bhmehing'  on  the  grass. 
lie  gazes  on  the  silent  (.lead  : 

"  They  perish'd  in  their  daring  deeds." 
lb  This  proverb  tiaslies  thro'  his  head, 
"  Tlie  many  fail :  the  one  succeeds." 

III. 

He  comes,  scarce  knowing  v/hat  he  seeks: 
He  breaks  the  hedge  :  he  enters  there : 

The  color  flies  into  his  cheeks: 
120      lie  trnsts  to  light  on  sometliing  fair; 

For  all  his  life  the  charm  did  talk 
Al)out  his  ])atli,  and  hover  near 

With  woi-ils  of  ])romise  in  his  walk, 
And  whis})er*d  voices  at  his  ear. 

IV. 

!-'3  More  close  and  close  his  footsteps  wind : 
The  magic  music  in  liis  lieart 
Beats  quick  and  cpiiekcr,  till  he  find 

The  (juiet  cluunber  far  n])art. 
His  spirit  ilutters  like  a  Lu'k, 
:aj       He  stoops  — to  kiss  her  —  on  his  knee. 
"Love,  if  tlvy  tresses  be  so  darlv. 
How  dark  tlH)se  hidden  eyes  nuist  be  I  '' 

ill.  The  thorny  close.     Se,- linrs  (U  -OC. 
V'll,  I'Jl).  The  cliann   mid  the  magic   music   are  what  well 
juay  have  led  the  Prinee  ot  a  fairy  tale. 


48  THE  DAY-DREAM. 


THE   REVIVAL. 


A  touch,  a  kiss  !  the  charm  was  snapt. 
There  rose  a  noise  of  striking  clo(;ks, 
iM  And  feet  that  ran,  and  doors  that  chii)t, 
And  barking  dogs,  and  crowing  cocks  ; 
A  fuller  light  illumined  all, 

A  breeze  thi-o'  all  the  garden  swept, 
A  sudden  hubbub  shook  the  hall, 
140      And  sixty  feet  the  fountain  leapt. 

II. 

The  hedge  broke  in,  the  banner  blew, 

The  butler  drank,  the  steward  scrawl'd, 
The  fire  shot  up,  the  martin  flew, 

The  parrot  scream'd,  the  peacock  scjuall'd, 
lis  The  maid  and  page  renew'd  their  strife, 

The  palace  bang'd  and  buzz'd  and  clackt, 
And  all  the  long-])ent  stream  of  life 

Dash'd  downward  in  a  cataract. 

III. 

And  last  with  these  the  king  awoke. 
150      And  in  his  chair  himself  u])rear'd. 

And  vawnM,  and  rubl^'d  his  face,  and  spoke, 

"  By  holy  rood,  a  royal  bcai'd  ! 
How  say  you?  we  have  slept,  my  loi'ds. 
My  l)eard  has  grown  into  my  laj")." 
155  The  barons  swore,  witli  many  words, 

'Twas  but  an  after-dinner's  nap. 
152,  Rood  =;  tlie  cross  ;  a  coinnioii  oatli  in  ancient  England 


THE    DAY-hREAM  49 


IV. 
"Pardy,''  roturuM  tlio  king-,  ''but  still 
Aly  joints  arc  soiiiewluit  stiff  or  so. 
My  lord,  and  shall  we  ])ass  the  l)ill 
160       I  inentiou'd  half  an  hour  a<;()  ?  " 
The  ehaneellor,  sedate  and  vain, 

In  courteous  words  returuM  reply: 
But  dallied  with  his  <j;oldeu  chain, 
And,  smiling,  put  the  question  by. 


THE    DEPAKTUKE. 
I. 

165  And  on  her  lovei''s  arm  she  leant, 

And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold, 
And  far  across  the  hills  they  went 

In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old: 
Across  tile  hills,  and  far  away 
170       Ixivond  their  utmost  ])ur])le  rim. 
And  dee])  into  the  dying  day 

The  happy  pi'incess  followed  him. 

II. 

"  I  'd  sleep  another  hundred  years, 
O  love,  for  such  another  kiss;" 
175 "  O  wake  for  ever,  love,"  she  hears, 

•■  O  love,  't  was  such  as  this  and  this." 
And  oer  them  many  a  sliding'  star, 

And  niaii}'  a  merry  wind  was  borne. 
And,  strcam'd  thro"  ruany  a  golden  bar, 
ISO      The  twilight  melted  into  ii!(»ni. 

IT)!.  Pardy.      Anothci-  oalli  — an  iCn^Ii^li  \'ersioii  e)i  /lur  Dii  u 
(l)y(io(l). 


60  THE   DAY-DREAM. 


ITU 

"  O  eyes  long  laid  in  liappy  sleep  !  " 

"  O  h:v])py  sleep,  that  lightly  fled  !  " 
"  O  hap]\y  kiss,  that  woke  thy  sleep  !  " 

'•  O  love,  thy  kiss  would  wake  the  dead  ! " 
185  And  o'er  them  many  a  flowing  range 

Of  vapor  buoy'd  the  erescent-bark, 
And,  rapt  thro'  many  a  rosy  change, 

The  twilight  died  into  the  dark. 

IV. 

"  A  hundred  summers  !  can  it  be  ? 
190      And  whither  goest  thou,  tell  me  where?" 
"  O  seek  my  father's  court  with  me, 

For  there  are  greater  wonders  there." 
And  o'er  the  hills,  and  far  away 
Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
195  Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day. 

Thro"  all  the  world  she  follow'd  him. 


MORAL. 
I. 

So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay, 
And  if  you  find  no  moral  there, 

Go,  look  in  any  glass  and  say, 
300       "What  moral  is  in  being  fair. 

Oh.  to  what  use^  shall  we  jiut 

Tlie  wiLlweed-flowei'  that  sim])ly  l^lows? 

And  is  there  any  moral  shut 
AVirliin  the  liosoni  of  the  rose? 

ISG.  Crescent-bark  :    the  luuou  in  j)oetr\'  is  fre(juently  likened 
to  a  bo;it. 


THE   DA  Y-lJliEAM.  bi 

II. 

m  But  any  iiuin  that  walks  the  mead, 

111  bud  or  blade,  or  bloom,  may  find, 
Accordiug'  as  his  humors  lead, 

A  meaniuu;'  suited  to  his  luiud. 
And  liberal  applications  lie 
no      In  Art  like  Nature,  dearest  friend; 
60  'twere  to  cramp  its  use,  if  I 

Should  hook  it  to  some  useful  end. 


L  ENVOI. 

I. 

You  shake  your  head.      A  random  string 

Your  finer  female  sense  offends. 
21.^  Well — were  it  not  a  ))leasant  thinfj 

To  fall  aslee})  with  all  one's  f  i-iends  ; 
To  pass  with  all  our  social  tics 

To  silence  from  the  jtatlis  of  men  ; 
And  every  hundred  years  to  rise 
2-20      And  learn  the  world,  and  skn^p  a<;ain  ; 
To  slee])  thro'  terms  of  mighty  wars. 

And  wake  on  science  pi'rown  to  more. 
On  secrets  of  the  brain,  tlie  stars. 

As  wild  as  auii'ht  of  fairy  lore  ; 
2-2.'>  Ami  all  that  else  tlie  years  will  show, 

The  l^oet-forms  of  stronger  liours, 
The  vast  Republics  that  may  yrow. 

The  Federations  and  tlie  Powers  ; 
Titanic  forces  taking'  birtli 

21;?.   A   random   string  :   here    an    off-liarnl    tnle    wiiiiout    im- 
moral. 


62  THE  DAY-DREAM. 

230      In  divers  seasons,  divers  climes  ? 
For  we  are  Ancients  of  the  earth, 
And  in  the  morning  of  the  times. 

II. 

So  sleeping,  so  aroused  from  sleep 

Thro'  sunny  decades  new  and  strange, 
285  Or  gay  qidnquenniads  would  we  reap 

The  flower  and  quintessence  of  change. 

III. 

Ah,  yet  would  I  —  and  would  I  might ! 

So  much  your  eyes  my  fancy  take  — 
Be  still  the  first  to  leap  to  light 
240      That  I  might  kiss  those  eyes  awake ! 
For,  am  T  right  or  am  I  wrong, 

To  choose  your  own  you  did  not  care  ; 
You  'd  have  my  moral  from  the  song, 

And  I  will  take  my  pleasure  there ; 
245  And,  am  I  right  or  am  I  wrong, 

My  fancy,  ranging  thro'  and  thi'o'. 
To  search  a  meaning  for  the  song. 

Perforce  will  still  revert  to  you  ; 
Nor  finds  a  closer  truth  than  this 
250      All-gi\aceful  head,  so  richly  curl'd, 
And  evermore  a  costly  kiss 

The  prelude  to  some  brighter  world. 

IV. 

For  since  tlie  time  when  Adam  first 
Emliraced  his  Eve  in  happy  hour, 
2%  And  every  l)ird  of  Eden  burst 

235.  Quinqiienniads  =  periods  of  five  years. 

2.'-i{5.   QuiutesBence  must  l>e  accented  on  tlie  first  syllable. 


THE   DA  Y-liJ:KAM.  53 

In  carol,  cvci'y  hud  to  flower, 
A\  liat  eyes,  like  thine,  have  wakcnM  hopes? 

What  lii)s,  like  thine,  so  sweetly  joind? 
^\  lu  re  on  the  doiihle  rosehud  droops 

The  t'ullness  of  the  ])ensive  mind  : 
\\"hii"h  all  too  dearly  self-involved, 

Yet  slee})s  a  dreandess  slee|)  to  nie  ; 
A  slei!))  l)y  kisses  undissolved, 

1'hat  h^ts  thee  neither  hear  nor  see  : 
iiut  break  it.      In  the  name  of  wife, 

And  in  the  rights  that  name  may  give, 
Are  elasp'd  the  moral  of  thy  life. 

And  that  for  which  1  care  to  live. 


EriLcxai:. 

So,  Lady  Flora,  take  n»y  lay, 
•-'Trt       And,  if  you  lind  a  meaning  there, 
()  whispei'  to  your  glass,  and  say. 

••  What  wonder,  if  he  thinks  me  fair?" 
What  wonder  1  was  all  unwis(\ 

To  shajie  the  song  for  your  delight 
■r,->  Like  long-taild  liii'ds  of  Paradise, 

That  float  tliro'  lli'aveii,  and  cannot  light? 
Oi'  old-world  trains,  upheld  at  court 

1)V  Cupid-hovs  of  blooming  hue  — 
P)ut  take  it  —  earnest  wed  with  sjiort, 
:'St»       And  either  sacred  unto  you. 

■J.")!).  The   double    rosebud:  ct'  iMmrsc    the  lips  of    tlic  liiic 

iH'foIV. 

■J77.   Old-world  trains -::;:  1  lie  li.ni'- skirts  of  old-wdi-lil  daiiits. 


54  DORA. 

DORA. 

AViTir  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode 
William  ami  Dora.      William  was  his  son, 
And  she  his  niece.     He  often  looked  at  them, 
And  often  thought,  "  I  '11  make  them  man  and  wife." 

5  Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle's  will  in  all. 
And  yearn'd  towards  William  :  but  the  youth,  be- 
cause 
He  had  been  always  with  her  in  the  house. 
Thought  not  oi  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a  day 
When  Allan  call'd  his  son,  and  said,  "  My  son  : 

10 1  married  late,  but  I  would  wish  to  see 
My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  I  die  : 
And  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  a  match. 
Now  therefore  look  to  Dora  :  she  is  well 
To  look  to  ;  thrifty  too  "Ijcyond  lier  age. 

10  She  is  my  brothei'"s  daugliter  :   he  and  I 
Had  once  hai'd  words,  and  parted,  and  he  died 
In  foreign  lands  ;  but  for  his  sake  1  bred 
His  daughter  Dora :   take  her  for  your  wife  ; 
For  I  have  wish"d  this  marriage,  night  and  day, 

20  For  many  years."'     But  ^Villiam  answer'd  short: 
'•  I  cannot  marry  Dora  ;  Ijy  my  life, 

Dora  is  one  of  the  pooins  wiiieli,  according'  to  a  jilan  Tennyson 
formed  and  abaiuloiied  for  the  title  (if  one  of  liis  l^ooks,  might 
well  have  been  called  an  /'/////  of  Oie  Il':ur(h.  It  first  appeared 
in  the  two-volume  Edition  of  l.Sili.  .Sucii  is  the  simplicity  of 
tlie  poem  in  plan  and  diction  that  "  notes  '"  are  more  than  usually 
a  superfluity. 

To  the  st(jry  of  "  J-)ora  rreswfdi,"  in  ^liss  Mitford's  Our  Vil- 
lage, Tennyson  arknowledo-eil  \,\s  dclit  for  the  origin  of  the 
poem.  Indeed,  the  ])oet  h;is  i'oMowed  tlic  story  very  closely, 
evM'u  in  many  detail-.  The  cDicIiki::  ;;■  i'nes  are  ])erhap>  the 
most  iiiijjortant  departure  frc      *    •   ■'    ■      ' 


])()I:a.  56 

I  will  not  iiKiri'V  Dora."      Tln'u  the  old  man 
A^^ls  wroth,  and  (loul)lt'«l  up  his  liaiids,  and  said: 
"•  Yon  will  not.  hoy  I   you  dai't;  to  answer  thus  I 

25  I)ut  in  niv  lime  a  lathorV-  woi'd  was  law. 
And  so  it  sliall  he  now  for  me.      Look  to  it; 
Consider,  A\  illiam  :   take  a  month  to  thiidc, 
And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  my  wish  : 
Or,  hy  the  Lord  that  made  me,  30U  shall  j)aek, 

30  And  never  more  darken  my  doors  ai;ain.'' 
l^)nt  William  answer'd  madly;   hit  his  lips. 
And  broke  away.      The  moie  he  lookd  at  her 
The  less  he  liked  her  ;  and  his  ways  were  harsh ; 
But  L\)ra  boi'c  them  meekly.      Then  ])efore 

35  The  month  was  out  he  left  his  lather's  house, 
And  hired  himself  to  woi-k  within  the  fields  ; 
And  half  in  love,  half  spite,  he  woo"d  and  wed 
A  laborers  dauj4lit(>r,  ]\Iary  Morrison. 

Then,  when  the  bells  were  rin^inu-,  Allan  call'd 

411  His  nieee  and  said  :   "  ]\Iy  girl.  I  love  you  well ; 
But  if  you  s))eak  with  \\\n\  that  was  my  son. 
Or  elian^e  a  word  with  lier  he  calls  his  wife, 
My  home  is  none  of  yours.      My  will  is  law.'' 
And  Dora  promised,  being  meek.      She  thought, 

«  ^  It  cannot  be  :  my  nncle's  mind  will  change  I  " 
And  days  went  on,  and  there  was  born  a  boy 
To  William  :  then  distresses  came  on  him  : 
And  (hiy  by  day  he  pass'd  his  fatluu-'s  gate. 
Heart-broken,  and  his  father  helpM  him  not. 

50  ]>nt  Dora  stored  what  little  slie  could  save. 
And  sent  it  tliem  by  stealth,  nor  did  they  know 
AVho  sent  it  :    till  at  last  ;■,  fever  seized 
On  \\  illiam.  and  in  I,ai'\;.'st  time  he  died. 
Then  Dora  went  to  M:;r\'.      Mar\'  .-^at 

55  And  lookM  v.ith  tear>  ui>on  hei'  li(>\-.  and  thought 


66  DORA. 

Hard  things  of  Dora,     Dora  came  and  said  : 

"  I  have  obey'd  my  uncle  until  now, 
And  I  have  sinn'd,  for  it  was  all  thro'  me 
This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 

60  But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's  gone. 
And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he  chose, 
And  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come  to  you  : 
You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these  five  years 
So  full  a  harvest :  let  me  take  the  boy, 

85  And  I  will  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 
Among  the  wlieat ;  that  when  his  heart  is  glad 
Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the  boy, 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's  gone." 
And  Dora  took  the  child,  and  went  her  way 

:o  Across  the  wheat,  and  sat  u])on  a  mound 
That  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies  grew. 
Far  off  the  farmer  came  into  the  field 
And  spied  her  not ;  for  none  of  all  his  men 
Dare  tell  liim  Dora  waited  with  the  child  ; 

lb  And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone  to  him, 
But  her  heart  fail'd  her ;  and  the  reapers  reap'd, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose  and  took 
The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the  mound  ; 

so  And  made  a  little  wreath  of  all  tlie  flowers 
That  gi-ew  about,  and  tied  it  round  liis  hat 
To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle's  eye. 
Tlien  when  tlie  farmer  pass'd  into  the  field 
fie  spied  her,  and  lie  hift  his  men  at  work, 

85  And  came  and  said:   "  Where  were  you  yesterday' 
Whose  child  is  that?     Wliat  are  you  doing  here?  " 
So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground. 
And  answer'd  softly,  '•  Tliis  is  William's  child!" 
"  And  did  I  ncjt,"  said  Allan,  "  did  1  not 

SKj  Forbid  vou.  Dora?"      Dora  said  aiiiiiu  : 


DOHA.  57 

"Do  with  lue  :is  you  will,  Imt  t:ikc  the  child, 
And  bless  him  for  tlic  sake  ot  him  that  "s  j^-one  !" 
And  Allan  said,  "  I  s( c  it  is  a  ti-ick 
(iot  uj)  lu'twixt  ^'ou  and  tlie  AVonian  thcvc 
9.'>  I  nnist  1)1'  taui;ht  my  duty,  and  hy  you  ! 
You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet  you  dared 
To  slight  it.      A\'ell  —  for  1  will  take  the  hoy  ; 
But  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me  more." 
So  saying,  lie  took  the  hoy,  that  cried  aloud 

100  And  struggli'd  hard.      The  wreath  of  flowers  fell 
At  Dora's  feet.      She  bow'd  upon  her  hands, 
And  the  hoy's  cry  eame  to  her  from  the  ficdd, 
jMore  and  more  distant.     She  bow'd  down  her  head, 
Kemeud)ering  the  day  when  first  she  came, 

lOo  And  all  the  things  that  had  been.     She  bow\l  down 
And  wept  in  secret ;  and  the  ivapei's  rea])'d. 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

Tiien  Dora  went  to  ]Mary's  house,  and  stood 
U])on  tlu!  threshold.      jNIary  saw  the  boy 

no  Was  not  with  Dora.      She  broke  out  in  praise 
To  (jod,  that  hel})'d  her  in  her  widowhood. 
And  Dora  said,  "]\Iy  uncle  took  the  boy; 
]5ut,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  woik  with  you  : 
He  says  that  he  will  never  see  me  more." 

n.5  Then  answer'd  Mary,  "  This  shall  never  be, 
That  thou  shouldst  tuke  my  trouljle  (ni  thyself: 
And.  now  T  think,  he  shall  not  have  the  boy, 
Tor  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and  to  slight 
His  mother:   therefoi'c  thou  and  I  will  go, 

iJ"  And  I  will  have  my  boy.  and  bring  him  home; 
And  I  will  beg  of  liiiii  to  tak<'  tlicc  back: 
T)ut  if  he  will  not  take  tlice  back  again, 
'^riien  thou  and   1  will  live  witlii'i  om-  house, 
And  work  for  W  illiams  child,  until  lie  gi'ows 

125  Of  ai-'c  to  help  us."' 


58  DORA. 

So  the  women  kiss'd 
Each  other,  and  set  out,  and  reach'd  tlie  farm. 
The  door  was  off  the  hitch  :  they  pecp'd,  and  saw 
The  boy  set  np  betwixt  his  grandsire's  knees, 
Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his  arm, 

'30  And  clapt  him  on  tlie  hands  and  on  the  cheeks. 
Like  one  that  loved  him  :  and  the  lad  stretch'd  out 
And  babbled  for  the  golden  seal,  that  hung 
From  Allan's  watch,  and  sparkled  by  the  lire. 
Then  they  came  in  :  b?it  when  the  boy  beheld 

i35  His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her : 
And  Allan  set  him  down,  and  Mary  said  : 

"  O  Father  I  ■ —  if  you  let  :ne  call  you  so  — 
I  never  came  a-bcgging  for  myself. 
Or  William,  or  this  child ;  but  now  I  come 

JO  For  Dora :  take  her  back  ;  slie  loves  you  welL 

0  Sir,  when  William  died,  he  ditd  at  peace 
With  all  men  ;  for  I  ask'd  him,  and  he  said, 
He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying  me  — 

1  had  been  a  patient  wife  :  but.  Sir,  he  said 
145  That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father  thus  : 

'  God  bless  him  I '  he  said,  '  and  may  he  never  know 
The  troubles  I  have  gone  thro'  I  '     Then  he  turn'd 
His  face  and  pass'd  —  unhappy  that  I  am  I 
But  now.  Sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for  you 

150  Will  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  learn  to  slight 
Ills  fatliei-'s  memory  :  and  take  Dora  back. 
And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  l)efore." 

So  ]Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By  Marv.     There  was  silence  in  the  room  ; 

155  And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in  sobs:  — 

148.  Pass'd:  this  old  use  of  pn.<s\l  for  dk-rl  is  the  same  as  in 
the  phrase  passiiKj-Jnll  — a  bell  that  tolled  immediatelj  ^fter 
death. 


rilE    TALKISG    OAK.  59 

"  I  liiive  been  to  l)l:iiiu'  —  to  hlainc      I  have  kill'd 
my  son. 
I  liavc  kill'd  liiin     -  l)ut  1  loved  liim  - —  my  dear  son. 
ALiy  (iod  forgive  int;  I  —  I  have  been  to  blame. 
Kiss  me,  my  (diildreii.'' 

Then  tliey  eluni;-  al)out 
160  r he  old  man's  neck,  and  kiss'd  him  many  times. 
And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  remorse  ; 
And  all  his  love  came  back  a  hundredfold  ; 
And  for  thi-ee  hours  he  sobb'd  o'er  \Villianrs  child, 
Thinking-  of  A\  illiam. 

So  those  four  abode 
m  Within  one  houses  together  ;   and  as  years 
Went  forward,  Mary  took  anothei'  mate  ; 
But  Dora  lived  luimarried  till  her  death. 

TIIK    'I'ALKINC;    OAK. 

OnCF,  more  the  gate  behind  me  falls, 

Onee  more  before  my  face 
I  see  the  moulder'd  Al)bey-walls, 

That  stand  within  the  ehaee. 

5  Beyond  the  lodge  tlie  eity  lies, 
Beneath  its  di'ift  of  smoke  ; 
And  ah  !   with  what  deliglited  eyes 
I  turn  to  yonder  oak. 

In  till'  piiciiis  of  ISIl'.  TIlp  'fiill-iii//  Oal:  first  a])poare(l.  The 
quotiilion  from  Mrs.  liiti'liic  in  tlic  llinfirnpliiral  Skitcli,  cowccvW" 
I'ng  the  jKMMiliarly  Kn'^lisli  cliarni  of  Tt'nnysoirs  writint;'  applies, 
perlia]).^,  as  fvxrihly  to  this  pocni  as  to  an\thinij^  in  his  work, 
lu'inavkahli.  too.  is  tlio  nia-.tt'ry  io>pla\  od  in  coniliinini,''  aocMi- 
I'atc  hotanical  knowlcdm'  with  jjortic  fci'lin^s  —  two  elements 
that  arc  not  easily  hlcmlcil. 

■i.   Cliace  — -  unt-nrlo-^i'd  imi'k  land. 


t)0  THE   TALKING   OAK. 

For  when  my  passion  first  began, 
10      Ere  that,  which  in  me  burned, 
The  love,  that  makes  me  thrice  a  man, 
Couhl  hope  itself  retm-n'd  ; 

To  yonder  oak  within  the  field 
I  s})oke  without  restraint, 
15  And  with  a  larger  faith  appeal'd 
Than  Paj)ist  unto  Saint. 

For  oft  I  talk'd  with  him  apart, 

And  told  him  of  my  choice, 
Until  he  plagiarized  a  heart, 
20      And  answered  with  a  voice. 

Tho'  what  he  wdiisper'd  under  Heaven 
None  else  could  understand ; 

I  found  him  garrulously  given, 
A  ])abbler  in  the  land. 

25  But  since  I  heard  him  make  reply 
Is  many  a  weary  hour  ; 
'T  were  well  to  question  him,  and  try 
If  yet  he  keeps  the  power. 

Hail,  hidden  to  the  knees  in  fern, 
30      Ijroad  Oak  of  Sunmer-chace, 
Whose  topmost  branches  can  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-])lace  I 

Say  th(ju,  whereon  I  cai'ved  her  name, 
If  ever  maid  or  s])ouse, 
35  As  fair  as  my  Olivia,  came 

To  rest  ijciifath  tliv  bouglis. — ■ 


Tin-:  r.\LKi.\<;  oak.  61 

"O  Walter.   I   lu\r  slirltciM  hero 
AVhatcvcr  maiden  i^race 
The  ;^(»()(l  old  Smniiieis,  year  by  yciir, 
to      Made  ripe  in  Sunnier-chace  : 

"Old  Summers,  when  the  monk  was  fat, 

^Vnd,  issuing;'  shorn  and  sleek. 
Would  twist  his  t;irdh'  ti<;ht,  and  pat 
The  girls  upon  the  cheek, 

45  "  Ere  yet,  in  scorn  of  i'et(U-'s-])ence, 
And  nund)er'd  head,  and  slu'ift, 
Bluff  HariT  broke  into  the  sj)ence 
.Vnd  turn'd  the  cowls  ailrift : 

"  And  I  luive  seen  some  score  of  those 
60      Fresh  faces,  that  would  thrive 
A\'hen  his  man-min(k'd  off'set  rose 
To  cliase  the  deer  at  live  ; 

"  And  all  that  from  the  town  would  stroll, 
Till  that  wild  wind  made  work 
65  Tn  which  the  gloomy  brewer's  soul 
Went  by  me,  like  a  stork  : 

■l.">-4S.  Peter's-pence  was  ;v  tax  to  tlic  C'lmi'ch  of  lloiiie.  and 
tlui  wlioli'  stan/a  rotfrs  to  tlic  casting  oil'  of  Papal  authority  l)y 
Iliiirv  Vlir.,  '•  lilutV  Harry."  Tiic  spence,  line  17,  was  the 
buttery  or  lanliM'. 

.■)1.  His  man-minded  offset.  Tleniy's  daughter,  (^>ui'eii 
Klizalu'tli. 

.">!.  That  wild  wind,  tlu'  storm  uliicli  raijcd  on  tlic  iii^lit  of 
Croiuwr:!'^  (!f;;tli  :  il  1>  said  tliat  his  t'athrr  was  a  hi'i'wi  r,  and 
tradition  iia>  it  tliat  ihc  st(U'k,  a  I'rpuldican  hird.  di>;i])|Kai'i'd 
from  l-hiij'lanii  when  Croinwull  ilied. 


62  THE   TALKING   OAK. 

•'  The  slight  she-slips  of  loyal  blood. 

And  others,  passing  praise, 
Strait-laced,  but  all-too-full  in  bud 
60      For  puritanic  stays  : 

"  And  I  haye  shadow'd  many  a  group 

Of  beauties,  that  were  born 
In  teacup^times  of  hood  and  hoop, 

Or  while  the  patch  was  worn  ; 

S5  "  And,  leg  and  arm  with  loye-knots  gay. 
About  me  leap'd  and  laugh'd 
The  modish  Cupid  of  the  day, 
And  shrill'd  his  tinsel  shaft. 

"  I  swear  (and  else  may  insects  prick 
70      Each  leaf  into  a  gall) 
This  girl,  for  whom  your  heart  is  sick, 
Is  three  times  worth  them  all ; 

"  For  those  and  theirs,  by  Nature's  law, 
Have  faded  long  ago  ; 
75  But  in  these  latter  springs  I  saw 
Your  own  Olivia  blow, 

'"  From  when  she  gamboU'd  on  the  greens 
A  l)al)y-germ,  to  when 

57.  She-slips  of  loyal  blood,  daughters  of  houses  faithf  il 
to  the  Stuarts  :  in  tlie  talk  of  an  oak,  they  are  naturally  .s/Z/av. 

rj3.  In  teacup-times  of  hood  and  hoop  :  this  line  and  tin 
five  that  follow  skillfully  suggest  the  days  of  Queen  Aiiiic. 
and  the  artifieialities  (;f  the  eighteenth  century. 

70.  Gall  =  the  luiiij)  that  grows  on  the  bark  or  leaves  of  n 
ti'ee  round  the  <'ggs  of  an  insect. 

7G.  Blow  =-.  hlouni. 


Till-:    'JALKJXf,    OAK.  Gu 

The  maiden  blossoms  of  lu-r  teens 
so      Could  numl)er  live  from  ten. 

"  I  swear,  l)y  leaf,  and  wind,  and  I'ain, 

(And  lieai'  nic  with  thine  ears,) 
Tiia.t,  tiio"  I  circle  in  tlie  grain 

Five  hundred  rings  of  years  — 

as  "  Yet,  since  I  iii-st  could  cast  a  shade, 
Did  never  creature  pass 
So  slightly,  musically  made, 
So  light  u])on  the  grass: 

"  For  as  to  fairies,  that  will  flit 
30      To  make  the  gi-eensward  fresh, 
I  hold  them  ex(juisitely  knit, 
But  far  too  spare  of  flesh." 

Oh.  hide  thy  knotted  knees  in  fern, 
And  overlook  the  chace  ; 
?5  And  from  thy  to])most  braneh  diseern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place. 

But  thou,  whereon  I  carved  her  name, 

That  oft  liast  heard  my  vows, 
Declare  when  last  Olivia  came 
"'■*      To  sport  beneath  thy  l)Oughs. 

"  O  yestt'rday,  you  know,  the  fair 

Was  holdcn  at  the  town; 
Her  fathi'i'  left  hi>  good  arm-ehair, 

And  rode  his  luinter  down. 

84.  Tlie  riii<r.s  whii'li  sliow  uii  t)ak's  agre. 


64  THE    TALKING    OAK. 

nio ''  And  with  liiin  Albert  came  on  his, 
1  lookM  at  hiui  with  joy: 
As  cowsli[)  unto  oxlip  is, 
So  seems  she  to  the  boy. 

"  An  hour  had  past  —  and,  sitting  straight 
no      Within  the  h)\v-wheerd  chaise, 
Her  mother  trundled  to  the  gate 
Behind  the  dappled  grays. 

"  But,  as  for  her,  she  stay'd  at  home, 
And  on  the  roof  she  went, 
115  And  down  the  way  you  use  to  come 
She  look'd  with  discontent. 

"  She  left  the  novel  half -uncut 

Upon  the  rosewood  shelf  ; 
She  left  the  new  i)iano  shut : 
120      She  could  not  please  herself. 

"  Then  ran  she,  gamesome  as  the  colt, 

And  livelier  than  a  lark 
She  sent  her  voice  thro'  all  the  holt 

Before  her,  and  the  park. 

i35 "  A  light  wind  chased  lier  on  the  wing, 
And  in  the  chase  grew  wild. 
As  close  as  might  be  would  he  cling 
About  the  darling  child  : 

"  Biit  light  as  any  wind  that  blows 
;/30      So  fleetly  did  she  stir. 

The  flower  sli(>  touchM  on  di})t  and  rose, 
And  tnrn'd  to  look  at  her. 


THIC    TALKING    OAK.  65 

"And  here  slie  came,  and  round  me  play'd, 
And  sang  to  me  the  whole 
l»  Of  those  tliree  stanzas  that  you  made 
About  my  *  giant  bole  ; ' 

"  And  in  a  fit  of  frolic  mirth 

She  strove  to  span  my  waist : 
Alas,  I  was  so  broad  of  girth, 
140      I  could  not  be  embraced. 

"  I  wish'd  myself  the  fair  young  beech 

That  liere  beside  me  stands, 
That  round  me,  clasping  each  in  each, 

She  might  have  lock'd  her  hands. 

i4o  "-  Yet  seeni'd  the  pressure  thrice  as  sweet 
As  woodbine's  fragile  hold, 
Or  when  1  feel  about  my  feet 
The  berried  briony  fold." 

O  nuiffle  I'ound  thy  knees  with  fern 
loo       And  shadow  Sunnier-chace  I 

Long  may  thy  topmost  branch  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place  I 

But  tell  me,  did  she  read  tlie  name 
I  carved  with  nianv  vows 
155  "When  last  with  tlirobbing  heart  I  came 
To  rest  l)eneath  tJiy  boughs  ? 

"O  yes,  slic  wnnderM  round  and  rou/id 
Tliese  knotted  kiiec*-^  of  niine. 

lis.  Briony.  A  coimiKni  ji]:iiit,  in  I''.ii^i:iinl.  'utMiitii;-  iv-d  bei-- 
ries.  St'f  Imw  T.oii^t'i'llow  u>c>  the  word  ii;  ■•'I'll."  Sicilian's 
Talr,  Til,'  Bell  Mt"  Am,"  in  {\w    l\,:r,  ,,f  „    lIV/^s/./,    luu. 


66  THE   TALKING   OAK. 

And  found,  and  kiss'd  the  name  she  found, 
160      And  sweetly  niurniur'd  thine. 

"  A  teardrop  trembled  from  its  source, 

And  down  my  surface  crept. 
My  sense  of  touch  is  something  coarse, 

But  I  believe  she  wept. 

166 "  Then  flush'd  her  cheek  with  rosy  light. 
She  glanced  across  the  plain  ; 
But  not  a  creature  was  in  sight : 
She  kiss'd  me  once  again. 

"  Her  kisses  were  so  close  and  kind, 
iw      That,  trust  me  on  my  word, 

Hard  wood  I  am,  and  wrinkled  rind, 
But  yet  my  sap  was  stirr'd  ; 

*'  And  even  into  my  inmost  ring 
A  pleasure  I  discern'd, 
175  Like  those  blind  motions  of  the  Spring, 
That  show  the  year  is  turn'd. 

"  Thrice-hap])y  he  that  may  caress 

The  ringlet's  wavini;  l)alm  — 
The  cusliions  of  whose  touch  may  press 
18«      The  maiden's  tender  palm. 

"  I,  roott'd  hei'o  among  the  groves, 

But  languidly  adjust 
My  va])id  vegetable  loves 

Witli  ;i]itli(!i's  and  with  dust: 

183.  Vegetable   loves.     Gill)ert  makes  amusing^  use  of  this 
phrast!  in  his  ojx'ni  ]'(itii'i«-i . 


nil-:    TALKLXr;    UAK. 

183  >■*  For  ah  I   my  iriciul.  tlic  days  wcic^  brief 
VVliorcof  the  poets  talk, 
When  that,  wliich  l)i-eathe.s  within  the  leaf, 
Couhl  slip  its  hark  and  walk. 

"But  could  I,  as  in  times  foregone, 

190      From  spray,  and  hranch,  and  stem, 

Have  suek'd  and  nather'd  into  one 

The  life  that  s])reads  in  them. 

"  She  had  not  found  me  so  ,emiss ; 
l^ut  lightly  issuing-  thro', 
lao  I  w^ould  have  paid  her  kiss  for  kiss, 
With  usury  thereto.'' 

O  flourish  liigh,  witli  leafy  towers, 

And  overlook  the  ha. 
Pursue  thy  loves  aniong  the  liowers 
wo       But  leave  thou  mine  to  me. 

O  flourish,  hidden  dee])  in  fei-n, 

Old  oak,  I  love  thee  well ; 
A  thousand  thank's  for  what  I  learn 

And  what  remains  to  tell. 

soo  "  'T  is  little  more  :  the  dav  was  warm  ; 
.Vt  last,  tired  out  with  I'hay, 
She  sank  her  head  ujxm  her  arm 
And  at  my  feet  she  hiy. 

"Her  eyelids  di'(i))pM  theii'  silken  eaves, 
no       I  hreathed  upon  her  e\-es 

riiro'  all  tile  simiiner  of  ni\'  leaves 
A  welc'ouie  niixM   \\'\[\\  .--i^'hs. 


68  THE   TALKING   OAK. 

"  I  took  the  swarming  sound  of  life  — » 
The  music  from  the  town  — 
215  The  murmurs  of  the  drum  and  fife, 
And  lull'd  them  in  my  own. 

"  Sometimes  I  let  a  sunbeam  slip, 

To  light  her  shaded  eye ; 
A  second  fluttered  round  her  lip 
220      Like  a  golden  butterfly  ; 

"  A  third  would  glimmer  on  her  neck 
To  make  the  necklace  shine ; 

Another  slid,  a  sunny  fleck, 
From  head  to  ankle  fine. 

225  "  Then  close  and  dark  my  arms  I  spread. 
And  shadow'd  all  her  rest  — 
Dropt  dews  upon  her  golden  head. 
An  acorn  in  her  breast. 

"  But  in  a  pet  she  started  up, 
230      And  plucked  it  out,  and  drew 
My  little  oakling  from  the  cup. 
And  flung  him  in  the  dew. 

"  And  yet  it  was  a  graceful  gift  — 
I  felt  a  pang  within 
235  As  when  I  see  the  woodman  lift 
His  axe  to  slay  my  kin. 

*'  I  shook  liim  down  because  he  was 

The  finest  on  the  tree. 
He  lies  beside  thee  on  tlie  grass. 
240      O  kiss  hiui  once  for  me. 


THE    TALKING    OAK.  09 

"  O  kiss  him  twice  and  thrice  for  me, 

That  have  no  lips  to  kiss, 
For  never  yet  was  oak  on  lea 

Shall  grow  so  fair  as  this." 

245  Step  deeper  yet  in  herl)  and  fern, 
Loolv  further  thro'  the  chace, 
Spread  upward  till  thy  boughs  discern 
The  front  of  Suniner-place. 

This  fruit  of  thine  by  Love  is  blest, 
250      That  but  a  moment  lay 

Where  fairer  fruit  of  Love  may  rest 
Some  happy  future  day. 

I  kiss  it  twice,  I  kiss  it  thrice, 
The  warmth  it  thence  shall  win 
255  To  riper  life  may  magnetize 
The  baby-oak  within. 

But  thou,  while  kingdoms  overset. 

Or  lapse  from  hand  to  hand, 
Thy  leaf  shall  never  fail,  nor  yet 
260      Thine  acorn  in  the  land. 

]May  never  saw  dismember  thee. 

Nor  wielded  axe  disjoint, 
That  art  the  fairest-s])oken  tree 

From  here  to  Lizard-point. 

2C5  O  rock  upon  tliv  towerv  to}) 

All  throats  that  gurgle  sweet! 

204.  Lizard-point,  usiiiilly  riillcd  ■' TIu-  Lizarrl,''  tlu^  southern 
extremity  of  Eiii^Luul,  near  Laud's  J'jul. 


70  THE   TALKING   OAK. 

All  starry  eulinination  drop 
Balm-dews  to  bathe  thy  feet ! 

All  grass  of  silky  feather  grow  — 
270      And  while  lie  sinks  or  swells 

The  full  south-l)reeze  around  thee  blow 
The  sound  of  minster  bells. 

The  fat  earth  feed  thy  branchy  root, 
That  under  deeply  strikes  I 
275  The  northern  morning  o'er  thee  shoot, 
High  up,  in  silver  spikes ! 

Nor  ever  lightning  char  thy  grain, 

But,  rolling  as  in  sleeji, 
Low  thunders  bring  tin;  mellow  rain, 
280      That  makes  thee  broad  and  deep ! 

And  liear  me  swear  a  solemn  oath. 

That  only  l)y  thy  side 
Will  1  to  Olive  plight  my  troth, 

And  gain  her  for  my  bride. 

285  And  when  my  marriag(^  morn  may  fall, 
Slie,  Dryad-like,  shall  wear 
Alternate  leaf  and  acorn-ball 
In  ■\vreath  about  her  hair. 

And  I  will  work  in  prose  and  rhyme, 
290      And  ])raist'  thee  more  in  both 

Tlian  burd  lias  honor'd  beeeli  or  lime, 
Or  tlint  Thcssalian  gi'owth, 

27o.  The  northern  nroriiing=  .\nrora  lioi'c'ili^, 

29::.  That  Thessalian   growth;   tlic  (h-,k   ar,   iNxIfMia.  fi'oiu 


SEA  Din: A  MS.  71 

In  which  the  swarthy  lingch^vo  sat, 
'And  mystic  sentence  spoke; 
W5  And  nioie  than  Knghmd  honors  that, 
Thy  famous  brother-oak, 

AVlierein  the  younger  Charh^s  abode 

Till  all  the  })atlis  were  dim, 
Antl  far  l)elow  the  Uoundhead  rode, 
300      And  humm'd  a  surly  hymn. 


SEA    DREAMS. 

A  CITY  clerk,  but  fi'ently  born  and  bred; 
I  lis  wife,  an  unknown  artist's  or})han  child  — 
One  babe  was  theirs,  a  Margaret,  three  years  old: 
They,  thinkin;;;'  that  her  clear  j^'ermander  eye 

5  Droopt  in  the  <2,iant-fact()i'ied  city-_ui<iom, 
Came,  with  a  month's  leave  given  them,  to  the  sea: 
For  which  his  gains  were  dock'd,  however  small : 
Small  were  his  gains,  and  hard  his  woi'k  ;  besides, 
Tlieir  slender  household  fortunes  (ft>r  the  man 

10  Had  risk'd  his  little)  like  the  little  thrift, 
Trembh'd  in  perilous  places  o'er  a  deep  : 
And  oft,  when  sitting  all  alone,  his  face 

wlik'li  tlu'  oriu'lc's  of  Zeus  were  said  to  be  delivered  tliroiiQl-: 
]iiL;'e()ns  ;  aimtlier  jnethod  was  to  interpret  tlie  rustling'  of  tlic 
Iea\es. 

*J0'').  Thy  famous  brother-oak;'  the  "  Iloval  ');ik ''  at 
I)i).-;mi1)c1  ill  whleh  Cliarlt's  II.  hid  after  liis  dei'eat  at  V,'oi-ce>tei 
in  lt;.-,l. 

•S' (/  llr'inii^  was  ]ii-()rlp.ccd  in  ihe  snini"  juTiod  \\i\]\  I'.'^m  •> 
.•]/'•'/■".  It  was  ]iriiiti'd  !ir>I  in  M iimii'-mi's  M-;f/frJ::i  U  '.  .i.u'.:;- 
urv,  ISiiO,  ;iiid  tuok  It-  ]>!ice  in  thr  vd'i.M t'  ';  >t'ii 

4.   G-erinaiide''^  a  I'tiiplr  llcw  ;  idU'  !..■:,  i  i  !  :  ;,',  :.  1 


72  SEA   DREAMS. 

Would  darken,  as  he  cursed  his  credulousness, 
And  that  one  unctuous  mouth  which  lured  him,  rogue, 

15  To  buy  strange  shares  in  some  Peruvian  mine. 
Now  seaward-bound  for  health  they  gain'd  a  coast.. 
All  sand  and  cliff  and  deep-inrunning  cave, 
At  close  of  day ;  slept,  woke,  and  went  the  next, 
The  Sabbath,  pious  variers  from  the  church, 

20  To  chapel ;  where  a  heated  pulpiteer. 
Not  preaching  simple  Christ  to  simple  men, 
Announced  the  coming  doom,  and  fulminated 
Against  the  scarlet  woman  and  her  creed : 
For  sideways  up  he  swung  his  arms,  and  shriek'd 

25 "  Thus,  thus  with  violence,"  ev'n  as  if  he  held 
The  Apocalyptic  millstone,  and  himself 
Were  that  great  Angel ;  ''  Thus  with  violence 
Shall  Babylon  be  cast  into  the  sea ; 
Then  comes  the  close."     The  gentle-hearted  wife 

40  Sat  shuddering  at  the  ruin  of  a  world  ; 
He  at  his  own  :  but  when  the  wordy  storm 
Had  ended,  forth  they  came  and  paced  the  shore, 
Ran  in  and  out  the  long  sea-framing  caves, 
Drank  the  large  air,  and  saw,  but  scarce  Ijclieved 

35  (The  sootflake  of  so  many  a  summer  still 
Clung  to  their  fancies)  that  they  saw,  tlie  sea. 
So  now  on  sand  they  walk'd,  and  now  on  cliff, 
Lingering  about  the  thymy  promontories, 
Till  all  the  sails  were  darken'd  in  the  west, 

19.  Variers  from  the  church.  Disseiuers  from  the  es* 
iablishod  church  of  England  ;  their  pLaces  of  worship  are  called 
ehapels,  not  cliurches. 

23.  The  scarlet  woman.  A  favorite  term  witli  one  class  of 
"pulpiteers  "  for  tlie  Cimrcli  of  Rome. 

26.  The  Apocalyptic  millstone.     See  Rev.  xviii.  21. 

39,  4U.  To  feel  the  truth  of  these  lines  it  is  only  necessary  to 


;SEA    DREAMS.  73 

«  And  rosed  in  the  east :  then  homeward  and  to  bed: 
Where  she,  who  kept  a  tencU-r  Christian  hope 
Haunting  a  holy  text,  and  still  to  that 
Keturnin*^,  as  the  bird  returns,  at  nii^hfc, 
"  Let  not  the  sun  go  down  upon  your  wrath," 

45  Said,  "'  Love,  forgive  him  :  "  l)ut  he  did  not  speak : 
And  silenced  by  that  silence  lay  the  wife, 
Kemembering  her  dear  Lord  who  died  for  all, 
And  musing  on  the  little  lives  of  men, 
And  how  they  mar  this  little  by  their  feuds. 

60      But  while  the  two  were  sleeping,  a  full  tide 
Rose  with  ground-swell,  which,  on  the  foremost  rocks 
Touching,  npjetted  in  s])irts  of  wild  sea-snu)ke, 
And  scaled  in  sheets  of  wastcfid  foam,  and  fell 
In  vast  sea-cataracts  —  ever  and  anon 

55  Dead  claps  of  thinider  from  within  the  cliffs 
Heard  thro'  the  living  roar.      At  this  the  babe, 
Their  Margaret  cradled  near  tliem,  wail'd  and  woke 
The  mother,  and  the  father  suddenly  cried, 
"  A  wreck,  a  wreck !  "  then  turn'd,  and  groaning  said, 

60      "  Forgive  I    How  many  will  say, '  forgive,'  and  find 

A  sort  of  absolution  in  the  sound 

To  hate  a  little  longer  I     No  ;  the  sin 

That  neither  God  nor  man  can  well  forgive, 

Hypocrisy,  I  saw  it  in  him  at  once. 
65  Is  it  so  true  that  second  tlioughts  are  best  ? 

Not  first,  and  third,  which  are  a  riper  first? 

Too  ri])e,  too  late  !  they  come  too  late  for  use. 

Ah  love,  there  surely  lives  in  man  and  beast 

Something  divine  to  warn  them  of  their  foes: 

remember  liow   diiVereiit    is  tlie   appearuuec   ot'   tihjeets   towards 
and  awav  iium  tlic  scttliii.''  su". 


74  SEA   DREAMS. 

70  And  such  a  sense,  when  first  I  fronted  him, 
k^aid,  '  Trust  him  not ; '  but  after,  when  I  came 
To  know  him  more,  I  lost  it,  knew  him  less ; 
Fought  with  what  seemVl  my  own  uncharity ; 
Sat  at  his  table  ;  drank  his  costly  wines  ; 

?5  Made  more  and  more  allowance  for  his  talk ; 
Went  further,  fool !  and  trusted  him  with  all, 
All  my  poor  scrapings  from  a  dozen  years 
Of  dust  and  deskwork :  there  is  no  such  mine, 
None ;  but  a  gulf  of  ruin,  swallowing  gold, 

80  Not  making.     Ruin'd  I  ruin'd  I  the  sea  roars 
Ruin  :  a  fearful  night !  " 

"  Xot  feai'ful ;  fair," 
Said  the  good  wife,  "  if  every  star  in  heaven 
Can  make  it  fair :  you  do  but  hear  the  tide. 
Had  you  ill  dreams  ?  " 

"  O  yes,"  he  said,  "  I  dream'd 
85  Of  such  a  tide  swelling  toward  the  land, 
And  I  from  out  the  boundless  outer  deep 
Swept  with  it  to  the  shore,  and  enter'd  one 
Of  those  dark  caves  that  run  beneath  the  cliffs. 
I  thought  the  motion  of  the  boundless  deep 
90  Bore  thro'  the  cave,  and  I  was  heaved  upon  it 
In  darkness  :  then  I  saw  one  lovely  star 
Laro'er  and  laro-er.     '  AVhat  a  world,'  I  thoufrht. 
'  To  live  in  I '  but  in  moving  on  I  found 
Only  the  landward  exit  of  the  cave, 
r>  Bright  with  the  sun  upon  the  stream  l)eyond ; 
And  near  the  light  a  giant  woman  sat. 
All  over  eartliy,  like  a  piece  of  earth, 
A  ])i('kaxe  in  her  hand  :   then  out  I  sli])t 
Into  a  land  all  sun  and  blossom,  trees 


SEA  />/,'/•;. I. U.S.  75 

too  As  hio'li  as  licavon,  and  every  bird  tliat  sings: 
And  here  the  niglit-light  tliekering  in  my  eyes 
Awoke  nie." 

"  That  was  then  your  dream,"  she  saitl, 
"  Not  sad,  but  sweet." 

"  So  sweet,  I  hiy,"  said  he, 
"  And  mused  upon  it,  drifting  u})  the  stream 

v)->  In  fancy,  till  I  sh'j)t  again,  and  ])ieeed 
Tlie  l)r()ken  vision  ;  for  1  dream'd  that  still 
The  motion  of  the  great  deep  bore  me  on, 
And  that  the  woman  walk'd  upon  the  brink  : 
I  won(U'r"d  at  hei-  strength,  and  ask'd  her  of  it : 

no '  It  eame.'  she  said,  '  l)y  working  in  the  mines:  ' 
()  then  to  ask  lier  of  my  shares,  I  thought ; 
And  ask'd:  but  not  a  word:  she  shook  her  head. 
And  then  the  motion  of  the  current  ceased, 
And  there  was  rolling  thunder  ;  and  we  reach'd 

iv,  A  mountain,  like  a  wall  of  bui's  and  thorns  : 
I)ut  she  with  her  strong  feet  u])  the  steep  hill 
Trod  out  a  ))ath  :   I  follow'd  ;  and  at  top 
She  pointed  seaward  :  there  a  fleet  of  glass, 
That  secmM  a  fleet  of  jewels  under  me, 

lid  Sailing  along  l)efore  a  gloomy  cloud 

That  not  on(;  moment  ceased  to  thunder,  past 
In  sunshine  :  right  across  its  track  there  lay, 
D;)wn  in  th(.'  water,  a  long  reef  of  gold. 
Or  what  seemd  gold  :   and  T  was  glad  at  fii'st 

ir,  To  think  tli:it  in  oui-  oftcn-ransack'd  woi'ld 
Still  so  nuich  gnld  was  left:   and  tlieu  T  fcarM 
T.est  the  ga\'  navv  tlicrc  should  splinter  on  it, 
.Vnii  fearing'  waved  my  arm  to  warn  them  oil  ; 
An  iille  siu'ual.  for  the  brittle  ilcet 


76  SEA   DREAMS. 

130  (I  thought  I  could  have  died  to  save  it)  near'd, 
Touch'd,  cliuk'd,  and  clash'd,  and  vanish'd,  and  I 

woke. 
I  heard  the  clash  so  clearly.     Now  I  see 
My  dream  was  Life  ;  the  woman  honest  Work ; 
And  my  poor  venture  but  a  fleet  of  glass 

135  Wreck'd  on  a  reef  of  visionary  gold." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  kindly  wife  to  comfort  him, 
"  You  raised  your  arm,  you  tumbled  down  and  broke 
The  glass  with  little  Margaret's  medicine  in  it ; 
And,  breaking  that,  you  made  and  broke  your  dream : 
140  A  trifle  makes  a  dream,  a  trifle  breaks." 

"  No  trifle,"  groan'd  the  husband  ;  "  yesterday 
I  met  him  suddenly  in  the  street,  and  assk'd 
That  which  I  ask'd  the  woman  in  my  dream. 
Like  her  he  shook  his  head.    '  Show  me  the  books  ! ' 

145  He  dodged  me  with  a  long  and  loose  account. 
'  The  books,  the  books ! '  but  he,  he  could  not  w^ait, 
Bound  on  a  matter  he  of  life  and  death : 
When  the  great  Books  (see  Daniel  seven  and  ten) 
Were  open'd,  I  should  And  he  meant  me  well ; 

150  And  then  began  to  bloat  himself,  and  ooze 
All  over  with  the  fat  affectionate  smile 
That  makes  the  widow  lean.     '  My  dearest  friend. 
Have  faith,  have  faith  !     We  live  by  faith,'  said  h^ 
'  And  all  things  work  togethei  for  the  good 
148.   "Tlic  judoiiient  was   set,  and  the  books  were   opened.'' 

Dan.   vii.    10.     As   in  Enoch   Arden  the   character  of  Annie   i* 

kept    consistent  hy  her  sni)erstltions,  so  here  tlie   familiar  use 

of  tlie  Scri])tures  by  the  city  ehn-k  and  his  wife  mark  them  as 

"  pious  variers  from  tlie  church  "  (line  19). 

154.  "  All  things  work  together  for  good   to  them  that  love 

God."     Rom.  viii.  28. 


SEA    DREAMS.  11 

155  Of  those  '  —  it  niiikes  nic  sick  to  (|uot('  liiiu  —   last 
(Jript  my  luiiid  hard,  and  with  (iod-ltlcss-you  went. 
1  stood  like  one  that  had  reeeived  a  blow  ; 
I  fonnd  a  hard  friend  in  his  loose  aceonnts, 
A  loose  one  in  the  hard  grij)  of  his  hand, 

icii  A  enrse  in  his  (iod-bless-yon  :   then  my  eyes 
Pursued  him  down  the  street,  and  far  away, 
Amon^-  tlie  honest  shoulders  of  the  crowd, 
Kead  raseal  in  the  motions  of  his  back, 
And  scoundrel  in  the  supple-slidin<^'  knee." 

!&■>      "  Was  he  so  hound,  poor  soul  ?  "  said  the  good 
wife  ; 
"  So  are  we  all :  hut  do  not  call  him,  love. 
Before  you  prove  him,  rot;ue,  and  proved,  forgive. 
His  gain  is  loss  :  for  he  that  wi'ongs  his  friend 
AVrongs  himself  more,  and  ever  bears  about 

170  A  silent  court  of  justice  in  his  breast. 
Himself  the  judge  and  jury,  and  himself 
The  ])risonei'  at  tiie  bar,  ever  condenni'd  : 
And   that   drags   down   his   life :    then  comes  what 

comes 
Hereafter:  and  he  meant,  he  said  he  meant, 

175  Perha])s  he  meant,  or  partly  meant,  you  well." 

'' '  With  all  his  conscience  and  one  eye  askew '  — 
Love,  let  me  cpiote  these  lines,  that  von  may  learu 
A  man  is  likewise  counsel  for  liinisidf. 
Too  often,  in  that  silent  coui't  of  yours  — 
\m  '•  AVith  all  his  conscience  and  oiU'  eve  askew. 
So  false,  he  ])artly  took  himself  for  true: 
A\'li()se  ])i()us  talk,  when  most  liis  heart  was  drv, 

li>r,.  Bound.     SiH'  line  1  17. 

ISO-  I'.i;;.    All  cxcelleiU   iiiiilation  ul'    llu-  s;itiric:il  >t  \  Ic  nl'    L't>lH' 
and  iii.--  ,->cliuul 


78  SEA   DREAMS. 

Made  wet  the  crafty  crowsfoot  round  liis  eye ; 

Who,  never  naming  God  except  for  gain, 
185  So  never  took  that  useful  name  in  vain  ; 

Made  Ilini  his  catspaw  and  the  Cross  his  tool. 

And  Christ  the  hait  to  trap  his  dupe  and  fool ; 

Nor  deeds  of  gift,  but  gifts  of  grace  he  forged, 

And  snakelike  slimed  his  victim  ere  he  s'or^'ed : 
19«  And  oft  at  Bible  meetings,  o'er  the  rest 

Arising,  did  his  holy  oily  best. 

Dropping  the  too  rough  II  in  Ilell  and  Heaven, 

To  spread  the  Word  by  which  himself  had  thriven.' 

How  like  you  this  old  satire  ?  " 

"  Xay,"  she  said, 
195  "  I  loathe  it :  he  had  never  kindly  heart, 

Nor  ever  cared  to  better  his  own  kind. 

Who  first  wrote  satire,  with  no  pity  in  it. 

But  will  you  hear  my  dream,  for  I  had  one 

Tliat  altogether  went  to  music  ?     Still 
200  It  awed  me." 

Then  she  told  it,  having  dream'd 
Of  that  sanie  coast. 

—  "  But  round  the  North,  a  light, 
A  belt,  it  seem'd,  of  luminous  vapor,  lay. 
And  ever  in  it  a  low  inusical  note 
Sweird  up  and  died ;  and,  as  it  swell'd,  a  ridge 
205  Of  breaker  issued  from  tlie  licit,  and  still 

Grew  witli  the  growing  note,  and  when  the  note 
Had  reach'd  a  thunderous  fullness,  on  those  cliffs 
Broke,  mixt  with  awful  liglit  (the  s:nn(!  as  tliat 

202-241.   Various   interpretations    of    tlie    wife's    dream    have 
been  attempted  ;  Init  siuee  the  meaiiiuy  of   IIh.'  liusliand's  dream 


SKA  i)in:.\MS.  79 

Liviiif^  within  tliL'  \nAi)  wlicichy  slic  .s;i\v 

noTliat  all  those  liiu-s  of  clitts  wcie  clilt's  no  more, 
lint  hiij;r  c-:ithc(li"il  fronts  of  every  ai^e. 
(Jrave,  Horid,  stern,  as  tar  as  eye  could  see, 
One  after  one  :   and  then  the  L;i('at  rid^t;  drew, 
Lessening;'  to  the  lessening-  music,  hack. 

S15  And  past  into  the  helt  and  swell'd  aL;aiu 
Slowly  to  music:   ever  when  it  hrokci 
The  statues,  king'  or  saint,  or  founder,  fell; 
Then  from  the  gaps  and  chasms  of  ruin  left 
Came  men  and  wonuMi  in  dark  clusters  round, 

220  Some  crying  '  Set  them  uj) !  they  shall  not  fall  I ' 
And  others  '  Let  them  lie,  for  they  have  falFn.' 
And  still  they  strove  and  wrangled  :  and  she  gi-ieved 
In  her  strange  dream,  she  kiu'w  not  why,  to  tind 
Their  wildest  waitings  never  out  of  tune 

22.5  With  that  sweet  note  ;   antl  ever  as  their  shrieks 
Ivan  iiighest  up  the  gamut,  that  great  wave 
Iveturning,  while  none  mark'd  it,  on  the  crowd 
Broke,  mixt  with  awful  light,  and  show'd  their  eyes 
Glaring,  and  passionate  looks,  and  swe])t  away 

xao  The  men  of  Hesh  and  l)lood.  and  men  of  stone. 
To  the  waste  deeps  together, 

"  Then  I  fixt 
^fy  wistful  eyes  on  two  fair  images, 
P)oth  ci'owuM  v.ith  stars  and  high  among  the  star>-  •=-  ■ 
The  \'irgin  Mother  standing  v.itli  her  child 
33.5  High  up  on  one  of  those  dailc  minster-fronts — ■ 

is  si>  clrar  a.-<  ti>  need  im  I'Xj'lunaiiiui,  ami  -iiicc  tiii>  wif.'  tiii-s  ti. 
show,  lines  ■_';'.'.»-•_' 11.  that  (Iri'iniis  aflti'  all  -i^-iilt'v  nut  lii:!.__r.  i^  jt 
uot  naii'i'  ri'asuiia1>lr  to  take  hrr  >\^>v:  nn'i-i'ly  for  w  hat  it  :i]i]Ma!- 
to  lit'  on  the  -nii'ai'c.  -  -  the  aci'omii  ol'  \i>ions  no  luun-  uuiuh  it'al 
than  tho.^c  whifli  >  miu,.  tu  aii\'  ihfaium-  ? 


80  SEA   DREAMS. 

Till  she  began  to  totter,  and  the  child 
Clung  to  the  mother,  and  sent  out  a  cry 
Which  mixt  with  little  Margaret's,  and  I  woke, 
And  my  dream  awed  me  :  —  well  —  but  what  are 
dreams  I 
240  Yours  came  but  from  the  breaking  of  a  glass, 
And  mine  but  from  the  crying  of  a  child." 

"Child?     No!"  said  he,  "but  this  tide's  roar, 
and  his, 
Our  Boanerges  with  his  threats  of  doom. 
And  loud-lung'd  ^\  ntibabylonianisms 
245  (Altho'  I  grant  but  little  music  there) 

Went    both   to    make  your   dream :    but   if   there 

were 
A  music  harmonizing  our  wild  cries. 
Sphere-music  such  as  that  you  dream'd  about, 
Why,  that  would  make  our  passions  far  too  like 
2-50  The  discords  dear  to  the  musician.     No  — 

One   shriek  of   hate   would  jar   all  the   hymns   of 

heaven : 
True  Devils  with  no  ear,  they  howl  in  tune 
With  nothing  but  the  Devil !  " 

"  '  True '  indeed ! 
One  of  our  town,  bat  later  by  an  hour 
26,5  Ilei'e  than  ourselves,  spoke  with  me  on  the  sliore ; 
While    you    were    running    down    the    sands,    and 

made 
The  dimpled  flounce  of  the  sea-furbelow  flap, 

li4o.  Boanerges.  See  line  20.  "And  lie  surnaiiied  tbein 
BojinersY'S.  wliicli  is.  the  sons  of  tlmii'ler."     St.  M;u'k  iii.  17. 

2-57.  The  sea-furbelow;  an  iini'aiuiliar  name  for  a  laro^e 
eea-woed  —  one  of  tlie  Laniinaria  —  which  has  a  dinij)led  liouuc^- 


.S7;.I    DIUCAMS.  81 

Good  mail,  to  plcascv  i\\v  child.     She  l)i()ui;ht  strange 

news. 
Why  were  you  silent  when  I  sjiokc  to-niL'lit ? 
20)  I  had  set  iiiv  heart  on  your  for^i\iiiii,-  him 

Before  you  knew.      \Ve  mn!<t  forgive  tlu;  dt  aa." 

"  Dead  :   who  is  dead  ?  " 

"■  The  man  your  eye  pursued. 
A  little  after  you  had  parted  with  him, 
He  suddenly  dropt  dead  of  heart-disease." 

:'i).')      "  Dead  ?  he?  of  heart-disease?  what  heart  had  he 
To  die  of?     Dead!" 

"  Ah,  dearest,  if  there  be 
A  devil  in  man,  there  is  an  angel  too, 
And  if  he  did  that  wrong  you  charge  liim  with, 
Ilis  angel  broke  his  heart.      But  your  rough  voice 
27C  (You  spoke  so  loud)  has  roused  tlu;  child  again. 
Sle(^]>.  little  birdie,  sl(>e])  I   will  she  not  slee]) 
Without  her  'little  birdie'?  well  then,  sleep, 
And  I  will  sing  you  '  binlie.'  " 

Saying  this, 
The    woman    half    turn'd    round    from    him    she 
loved. 
2:j  Left  him  one  liand.  and  reaching  tliro'  the  night 
Her  other,  found  (for  it  was  close  besi(h:') 
And  half  embracMMl  the  basket  cradle-liead 
^^  ith  one  soft  arm.  which,  like  the  jtliant  bough 

like  0(l<re.      For  TiMinyson's  own  cxi'Iiiiiatioii  of  tlic  Hue  see  note 
ill  Rolfe's  EiKx-h  Anl'ii  and  (Ml,>r  l<.>ni.-,  j).  IGl. 


82  SEA   DREAMS. 

That  moving  moves  the  nest  and  nestling,  sv/ay'd 
880  The  cratUe,  while  she  sang  this  baby  song. 

What  does  little  birdie  say 
In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Let  me  tiy,  says  little  birdie, 
Mother,  let  me  fly  away. 
2S5  Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer, 

Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger. 
So  she  rests  a  little  longer, 
Then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say, 
296  In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 

Baby  says,  like  little  birdie, 

Let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 

Baby,  sleep  a  little  longer. 

Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 
295  If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer. 

Baby  too  shall  fly  away. 

•'  She  sleeps  :  let  ns  too.  let  all  evil,  sleep. 
He  also  sleeps  —  another  sleep  than  ours. 
He  can  do  no  more  wrong :  forgive  him,  dear, 
3w  And  I  shall  sleep  the  sounder! " 

Then  the  man, 
"  His  deeds  yet  live,  the  worst  is  yet  to  come. 
Yet  let  your  sleep  for  this  one  night  be  sound : 
I  do  forgive  him !  " 

"  Thanks,  my  love,"  she  said, 
"Your  own  will  be  the  sweeter,"  and  they  slept. 


ODE   ON    THE   DEATH   OF    WELIJNGTON.      H'. 


ODE   ON    THE    DEATH    OF   THE    DUKE   OF 
WELLINGTON. 

I. 

Bury  the  Grout  Duke 

AV^ith  an  euij)iro'.s  lamentation. 
Let  us  bury  tlie  Great  Duke 

To  the  noise  of  the   mourning  of  a  mighty  na« 
tion, 
»\Iourning  when  their  leaders  fall, 
"Warriors  eari-y  the  warrior's  pall, 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hail. 

II. 

Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we  deplore  i' 
Here,  in  streaming  London's  central  roar. 
Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for, 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Eeho  round  his  hones  for  evermore, 

.■•.i'thur  Wellesley,  Duke  of  ^^'ellillJl^toIl,  died  September  12. 
l(Sr)_.  The  first  dnit't  of  the  Ode  w;is  luistily  written,  and  pub- 
(islied  as  a  sixtecn-pui^e  pamphlet.  In  tliis  form  it  received 
..f\  ere  eritieisin,  but  wiien  it  appeared  again  a  year  later,  it  ^s'as 
.'iiucli  emended.  Besides  minor  alterations  lines  were  added  to 
stanzas  i.  and  ii.  and  tlie  passage  about  Lisbon  in  the  sixth 
uanza  was  ineludcd. 

IMlVerent  as  Wellington  ^vas  from  Lineoln  in  many  outward 
\vays,  it  is  interesting  to  ol)Scr\-e  how  many  lines  wliieh  the 
1. aureate  wrote  of  t!ie  one  miglit  have  been  written  of  th(.^ 
ither.  It  is  somewliat  less  strangi'  that  the  high  patriotism 
rcK-hrated  iu  stan/.as  vii.  and  viii.  a]>}ieals  to  citizens  of  eviT\ 
land. 

'.I.  In  streaming  London's  central  roar  ;  in  St  Paul's  Ca- 
thedral. 


84  ODE   ON  THE  DEATH  OF  WELLINGTON. 


III. 

Lead  out  the  pageant :  sad  and  slow, 
As  fits  an  universal  woe, 
15  Let  the  long,  long  procession  go, 
And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about  it  grow, 
And  let  the  mournful  martial  music  blow  ; 
The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 

IV. 

Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last, 
20  Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the  Past. 

No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 

With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street. 

O  friends,  our  chief  state-oraele  is  mute : 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  long-enduring  blood, 
25  The  statesman-warrior,  moderate,  resolute, 

Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence. 

Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime. 

Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence, 
30  Great  in  council  and  great  in  war, 

Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 

Rich  in  saving  common-sense. 

And,  as  the  greatest  only  ai'e, 

Li  his  simplicity  sublime. 
S5  O  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 

O  voice  from  wliich  their  omens  all  men  drew, 

O  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 

O  fall'n  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 

IS.  The  last  great  Englishman  is  low.  Compare  this 
ihie  and  tin;  stanza,  iv.,  followinf^  witli  Lowell's  Commemoration 
O'/f',  stanza  vii.,  ending  witii  a  description  of  Lincoln  as  "the 
tirst  American." 


ODE    ON   THE   DE.iTII   OF    WELLINGTON.     Sr. 

VVliIch  stood  f()m-.s(|iKire  to  all  the  wiiuls  that  l)levv  I 
40  Such  was  he  \viu)iii  we  (ie])loi-e. 
The  long'  self-saci-iliee  ot  life  is  o'er. 
The  great  W'oi'ld-victor's  victor  will  be  seen  no  more. 

All  is  over  and  done  : 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 
■»■)  Eng-land,  for  thy  son. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd. 

Kender  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

And  render  him  to  the  moidd. 

Under  the  cross  of  gold 
•w  That  shines  over  city  and  river, 

There  he  shall  rest  for  ever 

Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 

Let  the  hell  be  toU'd : 

And  a  reverent  |)eo])le  behold 
35  The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds : 

Brigiit  let  it  be  with  its  blazon'd  deeds, 

Dark  in  its  finieral  fold. 

Ivet  the  bell  be  toll'd  : 

And  a  deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be  knoll'd  ; 
60  And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  anthem  roU'd 

Thro'  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross  ; 

And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his  loss ; 

He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 

For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 

42.  The  great  World-victor  — -  Xapoleon. 

4().  Let  the  bell  be  toll'd  :  it  may  be  noticed  liow  tlie  repe- 
tition (if  tiiis  line  anil  the  sound  !i\  the  passa<;'e  that  folh)ws,  of 
tiie    riiyiiies  witli  toll'i!,  produce   the   etVect   of  solemnity  that   is 

BOUt^llt. 

49.  The  cross  of  gold,  on  the  dome  of  St,  Paul's. 


8G  ODE   ON  THE  DEATH  OF  WELLINGTON. 

65  His  captain's-ear  lias  heard  them  boom 

Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom  : 

When  he  with  tliose  deep  voices  wrought, 

Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame  ; 

With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  captain  taught 
TO  The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 

In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name, 

Which  he  has  worn  so  ])ure  of  blame, 

In  praise  and  in  dispi'aise  the  same, 

A  man  of  well-attemper'd  frame. 
75  O  civic  muse,  to  such  a  name, 

To  such  a  name  for  ages  long, 

To  such  a  name, 

Preserve  a  broad  approacih  of  fame. 

And  ever-echoing  avenues  of  song. 

VI. 

80  Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  honor'd  guest, 
With  ])anner  and  with  music,  with  soldier  and  with 

])riest, 
AVith  a  nation  wee])ing,  and  breaking  on  my  rest? 
Mighty  Seaman,  this  is  he 
Was  great  by  laiid  as  thou  by  sea. 
8.5  Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou  famous  man, 
The  o-reatest  sailor  since  our  world  beran. 
Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums, 
To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes ; 
For  this  is  he 

81  Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea ; 
Ills  foes  wei'c  thine  ;  he  ke])t  us  free  ; 
()  give  him  welcome,  this  is  he 
Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 

s;').  Mighty  Seaman  :  Xclsoii.  wIid  whs  already  buried  in  St. 
Paul's,  asks  tlio  (jiuisti'in,  "  Who  is  he  ?  " 


ODE   ON    THE   DEATH    OF    WELIJNdTON.      87 

And  woi'tliy  to  be  laid  1)V  thee; 
.15  For  tin-,  is  l'>nnlaii(rs  greatest  son, 

lit'  that  L;ain"d  a  hundrt'd  fights, 

Xor  ever  lost  an  En<;lish  gun  ; 

This  is  lie  that  far  away 

Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye 
iDoClashM  with  his  iiery  ft3\v  and  won; 

And  underneath  another  sun, 

A\  arring  on  a  later  d.;y, 

Kound  affrighted  Lisl)on  drew 

The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 
r.w  Of  his  labor'd  i-ainpart-lines, 

\Miere  he  greatly  stood  at  bay, 

Whence  he  issued  forth  anew. 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew. 

Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 
no  Baek  to  ]■  I'anee  her  banded  swarms, 

Baek  to  France  with  countless  blows, 

Till  o'er  the  hills  lier  eagles  flew 

Beyond  the  Pyrenean  pines, 

Follow'd  UJ1  in  valley  and  glen 
n.'.  With  blare*  of  bugle,  clamor  of  men. 

Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms. 

And  England  jiouring  on  her  foes. 

Sucli  a  w;ii'  had  such  a  close. 

Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 
m)  In  ang(>r.  wheeVd  on  Europo-sliadowing  wings, 

And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings; 

Till  one  that  sought  but  Duty's  iron  crown 

9!">,  Assaye.  AVfIliiii;'t<in's  first  <,n'i';it  Imttlo,  in  Indi.i.  Srj)t.(Mr.- 
ixT  '_';5,  ISO:',.      M'itli  <t.(;()0  incu  Ik-  dcfc'itcd  .1(),()00. 

in:',.  Affrighted  Lisbon  ;  in  tlii>  IkiIIIc  of  Viniciro.  .\iH_:'ii-,t 'Jl. 
".SOS.  till"  i'l'eiicli  l(i>t  Lisljoi)  t(i  ^^'(■llil;o■t(lll  I'l'.d.T  (icluT;a 
■'uii'ij  i\\{'\  liRil  lu'ld  it  lu'iirh   ;i  Near. 


88      ODE   ON  THE  DEATH  OF   WELLINGTON. 

On  that  loud  sabbath  shook  the  spoiler  down; 

A  day  of  onsets  of  despair  ! 
125  Dash'd  on  every  rocky  square 

Their  surging  charges  foani'd  themselves  away; 

Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew ; 

Thro'  the  long-tormented  air 

Heaven  flash'd  a  sudden  jubilant  ray, 
130  And  down  we  swept  and  charged  and  overthrew. 

So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there. 

What  lono-endurino'  hearts  could  do 

In  that  world-earthquake,  Waterloo  ! 

Mighty  Seaman,  tender  and  true, 
185  And  j^ure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven  guile, 

O  saviour  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 

O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 

If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 

Touch  a  spirit  among  things  divine, 
140  If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all, 

Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by  thine ! 

And  thro'  the  centuries  let  a  people's  voice 

In  full  acclaim, 

A  people's  voice, 
14.5  The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, 

A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 

At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

Attest  their  great  commander's  claim 

With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 
150  Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 

123.  That  loud  sabbath  ;  the  day  of  the  battle  of  Water- 
loo. 

138.  O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  aud  the  Nile  ;  in  the  battle 
of  the  Baltic,  Xclsou,  with  Admiral  Parker,  defeated  tlio  Danish 
fleet  off  Copenliauiu,  April  2,  1801  ;  the  Battle  of  the  Nile  he 
won  from  the  French  uff  llosetta,  August  1,  1798. 


ODE   UA    llir:    niJAl'/l    UF    n'K/JJ\<^TOA.     8!j> 
VII. 

A  pe(>i)lt''s  voice !   \\(\  are  a  ))eoi)le  yet. 
Tho'  all  men  i>lse  their  nobler  dreams  for^^et, 
ConfusM  hy  brainU'ss  mobs  and  lawless  Powers; 
Thank  llim  who  isled  ns  here,  and  roughly  set 

IS')  His  liriton  in  blown  seas  and  storming  siiowers, 
We  ha VI!  a  voice,  with  whieh  to  pay  the  de])t 
Of  boundless  love  and  reverenee  and  regret 
To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and  ke})t  it  ours. 
And  keep  it  ours.  O  God,  from  brute  control ; 

itioO  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye,  the  soul 
Of  Euroi)e,  keep  our  noble  Kngland  whole, 
And  save  the  onc^  true  seed  of  freedom  sown 
Betwixt  a  people  and  their  am-ient  throne. 
That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there  springs 

is.->  Our  loyal  })assion  for  our  temperate  kings ; 
For.  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  mankind 
Till  })ublic  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust, 
And  drill  the  raw^  world  for  the  march  of  mind, 
Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns  be  just 

nit  l)ut  wink  no  more  in  slothful  ovevtrust. 
Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts  ; 
He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 
Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seawai'd  wall; 
His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 

175  For  ever  ;   and  whatever  tem])ests  lour 
For  ever  silent  :   even  if  they  broke 
In  thunder,  silent  :  yet  remend)er  all 
He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  Man  who  s])oke  : 
U  ho  never  sold  the  truth  to  scn've  the  hour, 

i-^n  Nor  p.-ihi  I'M  with  Fternal  (iod  for  power: 

1(!S.   Drill  the  raw  world;   .■!  ^tinii',;  inilltiiry  tiL;iirf  likening 
tlic  \\(H'lil  In  rcvriiit>  a>  \  ct  nut  rained  i'ur  ;i:  1  vanee. 
ITU.    Wink  T-  >leel,^ 


90  ODE   ON  THE  DEATH  OF  WELLINGTON. 

Who  let  the  tur])i(l  streams  of  i-unior  flow 
Thro'  either  bul^bling  world  of  high  and  low  ,• 
A^'hose  life  was  work,  whose  language  rife 
With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life  ; 

185  Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe ; 

AVhose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one  rebuke 
All  great  self-seekers  trampling  on  the  right : 
Truth-teller  was  our  England's  Alfred  named ; 
Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke ; 

190  Whatever  record  leap  to  light 
He  never  shall  be  shamed. 

VIII. 

Lo,  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 
Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 
Follow'd  by  the  brave  of  other  lands, 

195  He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 
Lavish  Honor  shower"d  all  her  stars. 
And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her  horn. 
Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 
Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great, 

200  But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island-story, 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory  : 
He  tliat  walks  it,  only  thirsting 
For  the  riglit,  and  learns  to  deaden 

205  Love  of  self.  l)efo]'e  his  journey  closes, 
He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 
Into  glossy  pur]>les.  which  outi'edden 
All  volu])tuous  garden-roses. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-story, 

2III  Tlie  ])atli  of  duty  was  the  wav  to  glory : 

ISi.   Riigged   mai-iims   hewn  from  life;  another  line   tbar 
might  h(^  iii)i)li('fl  accurately  to  Lincoln. 


ODE    OX    THE    DEATH    (-E    \VE/JJ.\GTO\.      '.)! 

lie,  that  cvor  followiiii;-  her  coinmands, 
On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and  hands, 
Thro'  the  lont;-  ,u;'ori;e  to  the  fai'  li^ht  has  won 
His  path  npward,  and  ])revaird. 

Ji/j  SJiall  hnd  the  topjjlini;'  crags  ot"  Dnty  sealed 
Are  eh)se  npon  the  shininn'  tahle-hinds 
To  wliieh  onr  (iod  Jliniself  is  moon  and  sun. 
Sueh  was  he  :   his  work  is  d()n(\ 
l^nt  wliihi  the  races  of  mankind  endure, 

?.'o  Let  Ids  >;reat  exam])h'  stand 
Coh>ssal.  seen  of  every  land. 
And  kee])  the  soldier  firm,  the  statesman  pure  : 
Till  in  all  lands  and  thro'  all  human  story 
The  j)ath  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory  : 

2.'o  And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  saved  from  shanie 
For  many  and  many  an  age  ])roclaim 
At  civic  revel  and  pom])  and  game, 
And  when  the  long-ilhunined  cities  flame 
Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame, 

2;jo  A\'ith  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 

IX. 

Peace,  his  triumph  will  he  svmg 

]>y  sonu^  yet  unmoidded  tongue 

Yav  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not  see : 
U'  Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  ]iain 

For  one  about  whose  ])atriarclial  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung  : 

O  ])cace,  it  is  a  day  of  ])ain 

For  one,  upon  whose  hand  and  heart  and  bi-aiu 
24"  (Jnce  tlie  weight  and  fate  of  Furope  liung. 

-'29.   Iron  leader ;  Weliinglou's  f;iiiiili;u'  iiainc   w;is  the   Iron 
Ihikv 


92     ODE   ON  THE  DEATH  OF  WELLINGTON. 

Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain ! 

More  tlian  is  of  man's  degree 

Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 

At  this,  our  great  solenniity. 
245  Whom  we  see  not  we  revere  ; 

We  revere,  and  we  refrain 

From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain. 

And  bravv'ling  memories  all  too  free 

For  such  a  wise  humility 
{30  As  befits  a  solemn  fane  : 

We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 

The  tides  of  Music's  golden  sea 

Setting  toward  eternity. 

Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we, 
255  Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 

There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to  do 

Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 

And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 

For  tho'  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 
260  And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 

Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will ; 

Tho"  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads  roll 

Round  us,  each  with  different  powers. 

And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours, 
2«5  What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul  ? 

On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  our  trust. 

Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the  people's  ears : 

The  tlark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are  sobs  and  tears 

The  black  earth  yawns  :  the  mortal  disappears ; 
w  Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ; 

He  is  gone  who  seem'd  so  great.  — 

Gone  ;  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 

Of  the  force  he  made  liis  own 

Bein<i'  here,  and  we  l)elieve  him 


L7.}VS.S7s.V.  93 

?7i  Soniothing  far  advanced  in  State, 

And  that  he  wears  a  truer  erown 

Than  any  wreath  that  man  can  weav(^  liim. 

8i)eak  no  more  of  his  renown, 

Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down, 
380  And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him. 

God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 


ULYSSES. 

It  little  profits  ':hafc  an  idle  king, 
By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren  crags, 
JVIatch'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  meet  and  dole 
Unecpial  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 
5  That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know  not  me. 
I  cannot  rest  from  travel :   I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees :  all  times  I  have  enjoy'd 
Greatly,  Jiave  suffer'd  greatly,  both  with  those 
That  loved  me,  and  alone  ;  on  shore,  and  when 
10  Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Ilyades 
Vext  the  dim  sea :   I  aui  become  a  name  ; 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known  ;  cities  of  men 
And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments, 

f'li/ssps  ap.jx'ared  first  in  thf  volume  of  ISl'J.  iVn  iutorostiiio- 
L'lrcimi.stiiiu'c  ill  coiiiicction  with  it  is  thiit  when  Sir  Robert 
i\H'l  as  I'riiue  Minister  was  urofd  to  put  Teiiiiysou's  name  on 
the  pension  li>t  in  ISl,"),  lie  eonfessed  complete  i<;-noranee  of  tlie 
poet's  work.  The  reading-  of  this  one  poem,  however,  decided 
him  to  o-i-uit  the  annuity. 

10.  Hyades  =  ••  tlie  rainers,"'  the  t^'roup  of  seven  stars  <it  tlie 
head  of  T.iuriis. 

11.  Vext.  Students  of  Latin  will  feel  tlu'  (da-^.sirism  of  tliis 
word. 


94  ULYSSES. 

15  Myself  not  least,  but  honor'd  of  them  all ; 
And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met ; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 

"io  Gleams  tliat  untravell'd  world,  whose  margin  fades 
For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 
To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in  use ! 
As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.     Life  piled  on  life 

36  Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains ;  but  every  hour  is  saved 
From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 
A  briuger  of  new  things ;  and  vile  it  were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself, 

30  And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 
To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star. 
Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle  — ■ 

25  Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 

40  Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 
Li  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods. 
When  I  am  gone.     He  works  his  work,  I  mine 
There  lies  the  ])ort ;  the  vessel  })uffs  her  sail : 

I J  There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.     My  mariners, 
Souls  that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought,  and  thought 

with  nil'  — 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 


UL  YSSKS.  95 

The  tluuuler  and  tlic  smishiiH",  and  opposed 
Fri'c  lu'Hi'ts,  free  loicIie:id>  — you  and  I  are  old; 

wOld  ai^e  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil  ; 
Death  (doses  all:    hut  something-  ere  the  end, 
Some  work  of  nol)le  note  may  yet  hi'  done, 
Not  unlx'coniinL;'  men  that  strove  with  (Jods. 
The  lii;hts  heyin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks: 

55  The  loni;-  day   wanes:    the   slow   moon   elimhs :   th.e 
dee}) 
Moans  round  with  many  voices.      Come,  my  friends, 
'T  is  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting'  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding-  furrows  ;  for  my  ])urpose  holds 

60  To  sail  hevond  the  sunset,  and  the  haths 
Of  all  the  western  staivs,  until  1  die. 
It  may  he  that  the  i2,ulfs  will  wash  us  down  : 
It  may  V)e  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 

6.5  Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides;   and  tho' 
We  are  not  now  that  streneth  whic-h  in  old  days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven ;    that   which  we  are,  w6 

are  ; 
One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 
^lade  weak  hy  time  and  fate,  hut  strong  in  will 

70  To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 

()0.  The  baths,  etc.     AVhcre   the  westerr.  stars  sink  into  the 
gea. 


91'     THE   CHARGE   OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 
THE   CHARGE   OF   THE   LIGHT   BRIGADE. 


Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
6  "  Forward  the  Light  Brigade  I 
Charge  for  the  guns !  "  he  said : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

II. 

"  Forward  the  Light  Brigade  I " 
10  Was  there  a  man  dismay'd  ? 
Not  tho'  the  soldier  knew 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  was  first  printed  in  a  London 
daily  newspaper  in  December,  1854,  with  a  note  by  the  autlior 
saying  it  was  prompted  by  his  "  reading  the  first  report  of  the 
Times'  correspondent,  where  only  six  hundred  and  seven  sabres 
are  mentioned  as  having  taken  part  in  the  charge."  Bala- 
klava,  where  the  charge  took  place,  was  the  British  headquar- 
ters, in  the  Crimean  War,  from  September,  1854  to  June,  185G; 
the  charge  itself  was  made  October  25,  1854.  From  the  mili- 
tary point  of  view  it  was  an  absurd  and  hopeless  movement. 
The  order  which  occasioned  it  was  a  blunder.  Captain  Nolan, 
on  whom  it  fell  to  deliver  the  command,  was  the  first  man  to 
fall. 

In  the  volume  of  1855,  the  poem  appeared  considerably 
amended,  but  the  changes  were  so  criticised  that  the  poet  restored 
the  lines  more  nearly  to  their  original  form.  Moreover,  he  had 
a  thousand  copies  of  them  printed  in  leaflets  for  distribution 
among  the  soldiers  before  Sebastopol  ;  for  he  had  heard  liow 
they  liked  the  poem,  and  wanted  them,  as  he  said  in  a  note 
printed  with  it,  "to  know  that  those  who  sit  at  home  love  and 
honor  them." 


THE   CHARGE    OF   THE   LKniT  BRIGADE.     'J t 

Some  one  had  blunder'd: 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
u  Theirs  but  to  do  and  die : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Kode  the  six  hundred. 

III. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
so  Cannon  in  front  of  them 
Volley \1  and  thunder'd  : 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
Boldly  they  lode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
» Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

IV. 

Flasird  all  their  sabres  bare, 

riasird  as  they  turn'd  in  air 

Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
30  Charging  an  ai'my,  while 
All  the  world  wonder 'd  : 

Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke 

Right  thro'  the  line  they  broke ; 

Cossack  and  Russian 
s.)  Rccrd  from  the  sabre-stroke 

ShatterM  and  sunderM. 

Then  they  rode  back,  but  not 
Not  the  six  hundred. 


Cannon  to  riglif  of  tliem, 
40  Cannon  to  Irft  of  ihom. 


98  LADY  CLARE. 

Cannon  behind  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd  ; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
46  They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro'  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 
Left  of  six  hundred. 

VI. 

50  When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made ! 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made  I 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

85      Noble  six  hundred  ! 


LADY  CLARE. 

It  was  the  time  wlien  lilies  blow, 
And  clouds  are  higliest  up  in  air, 

Lord  Ronald  brought  a  lily-white  doe 
To  give  his  cousin,  Lady  Clare. 

5  I  trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn  : 
Lovers  long-betroth'd  were  they : 
They  two  will  wed  the  morrow  morn  : 
God's  blessing  on  the  day  ! 

Lady  Clare  appearcrl  in  tlio  volume  of  1842,  and  there  the  poet 
acknowledged  in  a  note  his  debt  to  Miss  Ferrier's  novel  The  In- 
heritance for  the  story.  As  the  substance  of  the  verses  is  like 
tliat  of  an  old  English  ballad,  so  is  the  manner,  to  a  remarkable 
deirree. 


LAJjy    CLARE.  99 

•'  He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth, 
W      Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair  ; 
He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth, 
And  that  is  well,"  said  Lady  Clare. 

In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse, 

Said,  "  Who  was  this  that  went  from  thee  ?'* 
15  '•  It  was  my  cousin,"  said  Lady  Clare, 
"  To-morrow  he  weds  with  me." 

"  O  God  be  thank'd  I  "  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

"That  all  comes  round  so  just  and  fair: 
Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands, 
20      And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"  Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse,  my  nurse  ?  " 
Said  Lady  Clare,  "  that  ye  speak  so  wild  ?  " 

"  As  God  "s  above,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  I  speak  the  truth  :  you  are  my  child. 

25  "  The  old  Earl's  daughter  died  at  my  breast ; 
I  speak  tlie  truth,  as  I  live  by  bread ! 
I  buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child, 
And  put  my  child  in  her  stead." 

"  Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 
»      O  mother,"  she  said,  "  if  this  be  true, 
To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 
So  many  years  from  his  due." 

"  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 
»  And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Konald's, 
When  von  are  man  and  wife." 


100  LADY  CLARE. 

"  If  I  'ni  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 

"  I  will  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  lie. 
Pull  off,  pull  off,  the  brooch  of  gold, 
40      And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by." 

"  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can." 

She  said,  "  Not  so  :  but  I  will  know 
If  there  be  any  faith  in  man." 

45  "  Nay  now,  what  faith?  "  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  The  man  will  cleave  unto  his  right." 
"  And  he  shall  have  it,"  the  lady  replied, 
"  Tho'  I  should  die  to-night." 

"  Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother  dear  ! 
50      Alas,  my  child,  I  sinn'd  for  thee." 
"  O  mother,  mother,  mother,"  she  said, 
"  So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 

"  Yet  here 's  a  kiss  for  my  mother  dear. 
My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so, 
55  And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head. 
And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I  go." 

She  clad  herself  in  a  russet  gown. 
She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare : 
She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by  down, 
«      With  a  single  rose  in  her  hair. 

The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had  brought 

Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 
Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden's  hand, 

And  follow'd  her  all  the  wav. 


LADY   CLARE.  101 

a  Down  stept  liord  llouald  from  his  tower : 
"  O  Lady  Clare,  you  shame  your  worth ! 
Why  come  you  drest  like  a  villai:;e  maid, 
That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth  ?  " 

"  If  I  eome  drest  like  a  village  maid, 
70      I  am  hut  as  my  fortunes  are : 
I  am  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
"  And  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"  Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
''  For  I  am  yours  in  word  and  in  deed, 
75  Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald,  . 
''  Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read." 

O  and  proudly  stood  she  up ! 

Pier  heart  within  her  did  not  fail ; 
She  look'd  into  Lord  Ronald's  eyes, 
80      And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  tale. 

He  laugh'd  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn  : 

He  turn'd  and  kiss'd  her  where  she  stood : 

"•  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 

And  I,"  said  he,  "'  the  next  in  blood  — - 

85  "  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born. 

And  I."'  said  he,  "  the  lawful  heir. 
We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn, 
And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare." 

73.  Lord  Ronald'  ;  the  necessity  of  accenting  Ronald  here, 
on  the  seeund  syllable,  is  one  of  the  marks  of  the  ballad  stru" 
tnre. 

77.   O  aud  proudly,  another  ballad  foi'ui. 


102  THE  DEATH  OF  THE   OLD   YEAR. 


THE   DEATH   OF   THE   OLD   YEAR. 

Full  knee-deep  lies  tlie  winter  snow, 
And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  sighing. 
Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow, 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 
6  For  the  old  year  lies  a-dyiug. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  die  ; 

You  came  to  us  so  readily, 

You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

10  He  lieth  still :  he  doth  not  move  : 
He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 
He  hath  no  other  life  above. 
He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true  true-love, 
And  the  New-year  will  take  'em  away. 
15  Old  year,  you  nmst  not  go  ; 

So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us, 
Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us. 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 

He  f  roth'd  his  bumpers  to  the  brim ; 
20  A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 
But  tho'  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim. 
And  tho'  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 
He  was  a  friend  to  me. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die  ; 
»  We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 

I  've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you. 
Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 

The  Death  of  the  Old   Year  first  appeared  in  the  volume  ai 
1832. 


THE   DEATH   OF   THE   OLD    YEAR  103 

lie  was  full  of  joke;  and  ji'st, 
But  all  his  nu'rry  (juips  are  o'er. 
JO  To  see  hiui  die,  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 
But  he  '11  be  dead  before. 
Every  one  for  his  own. 
The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  tny  friend, 
»  And  the  New-year  blithe  and  bold,  my  friend, 

Conies  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes  !  over  the  snow 
I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro : 
40  The  cricket  chirps  :  the  light  burns  low : 
"T  is  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands,  before  you  die. 
Old  year,  we  '11  dearly  rue  for  you: 
What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you? 
45  Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 
Alack  I  our  friend  is  gone. 
Close  up  his  eyes :  tie  up  his  chin : 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
50  That  standeth  there  alone. 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There  's  a  now  foot  on  the  floor,  my  friend, 

And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my  friend, 

A  new  face  at  the  door. 


104  CROSSING   THE  BAR. 


CROSSING  THE   BAB. 

Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

»  But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 
Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 
Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 
3»      And  after  that  the  dark ! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 
W^hen  I  embark ; 

For  though  from  out  our  boutne  of  time  and  place 
The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
15 1  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 
When  I  have  crost  the  bar. 

Crossing  the  Bar  was  contained  in  the  volume  of  1889,  Ds- 
meter  and  Other  Poems.  For  a  singer  of  eighty  years  to  strike 
so  truh'  hrical  a  note,  to  show  himself  as  eminently  a  poet  as  in 
his  prime,  was  not  the  least  of  Tennyson's  achievements.  The 
■verses  were  sung  at  the  poet's  funeral  in  Westminster  Abbey. 
The  last  poem  he  wrote,  with  music  by  Lady  Tennyson,  was  also 
a  part  of  the  service. 

3.  Moaning  of  the  bar.  A  familiar  line  in  Charles  Kings- 
ley's  The  Three  Fishers  comes  to  mind,  —  "  And  the  harbor  bai 
be  moaning." 


UCSOUTH[HNH! 


001  437  374    o 


"N 


■v^^.,^""-*^. 


:.^*!«*m*.: 


